


Remember Spring Swaps Snow for Leaves

by herewestandinfireandblood (fairytale_bliss)



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Mild Angst, Mild Sexual Content, Modern AU, but still Westeros
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-27
Updated: 2020-12-27
Packaged: 2021-03-11 01:07:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 53,395
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28366644
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fairytale_bliss/pseuds/herewestandinfireandblood
Summary: Modern AU. "Twelve days is what I'm asking for," she says. "I bet that in twelve days I can convert you to a Christmas lover."
Relationships: Jorah Mormont/Daenerys Targaryen
Comments: 10
Kudos: 46
Collections: Winter Jorleesi 2020





	Remember Spring Swaps Snow for Leaves

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Holidays to all!
> 
> Didn't have time to give it the polishing it needed, but oh well.
> 
> Salzrand has made my life with the fanart she's made. I never, ever thought I would inspire anyone to create something on something I've written. Look at how incredibly perfect it is. I am in awe. I love it so, so much, and I am beyond humbled. Thank you so much! <3

The last dragon, they call her. Some out of pity, some out of malice. The last true Targaryen in the world. Her brother Viserys had fashioned himself the last dragon, and people had sniggered behind his back. There was nothing remotely dragonesque about Viserys. He was less than the shadow of a snake, that was what Jorah had always said. There had been no love lost there. Viserys hadn’t liked Jorah any more than Jorah had liked him. Viserys damning assessment of Jorah was that he was old and washed up, with no prospects even with the Westerosi name that traced back to the First Men, as ancient as the noble Stark lineage.

Daenerys had always wanted to defend him, but she’d only been a slip of a girl then, cowering away from him, in no hurry to feel the burning corrosion of her skin beneath his acidic tongue. Defying her brother had only led to stinging slaps and malevolent spite. Only with Jorah’s friendship and her then-boyfriend’s fearlessness had she found herself growing in confidence, culminating in her fighting back and _winning_.

She had blossomed from there.

Now Viserys is gone, Drogo is gone, but Jorah is still here. From Essos to Westeros, he has been by her side. He has supported her through her rise as no one else has.

Not that their relationship hasn’t been without its pitfalls and razor-sharp edges. They argued bitterly when he told her he had feelings for her, their relationship had almost fractured when she had found out that he had spoken to a rival about what they were doing, and she had had to endure his sullen silences and occasional caustic remark when she had her fling with Daario Naharis. But that is all in the past bow.

They have a future that’s looking ever-brighter. And, as the years have passed, she’s begun to see the world through a different kind of lens.

Her thoughts are interrupted as she finally reaches her destination. _Breaker of Chains_ cuts an impressive view beside the dreary, ramshackle buildings around it. This place is her castle; she has poured her soul into making this place a success.

The bell tinkles, and she wipes her feet on the roughhewn mat at the door, shaking the first snowflakes from her hair.

“Morning,” Missandei calls across the room.

Daenerys unwinds her scarf from around her neck and shrugs off her thick coat. “Morning, Missandei. How are things?”

“Oh, the same as usual,” she says. “Utter madness. We’ve barely averted a fistfight over the Cornflakes.”

“Where’s Jorah?” Dany asks.

“In the back office, I think, checking the CCTV. One of the lads is accusing another of stealing from him.”

“Gods,” Daenerys groans. “I should go smooth it over.”

“It’s fine, Torgo has it in hand. Go and see Jorah if you need to.”

There’s a knowing twinkle in her friend’s eyes, but Daenerys ignores it.

“Won’t be long,” she murmurs.

“Take as long as you need,” says Missandei with another little smirk. “Have fun.”

Gods, she regrets getting drunk and spilling her soul out now. Not that it really makes a difference. Missandei’s caring nature means she could coax a confession out of the holiest of septons.

She makes her way through the mess hall, dodging people’s attempts at intercepting her and offering cheery smiles in consolation. At last, she reaches the little security room. She raps her knuckles against the wood.

“Who is it?” comes Jorah’s muffled voice.

“Only me.”

There’s a moment of distant scrabbling before the door is pulled open, revealing Jorah to her.

“Hi,” he says.

Daenerys slips under his arm, squeezing herself into the small space. “Missandei tells me there’s been an accusation.”

Jorah grimaces. “I guarantee it’s all made up. But you know they like to waste my time.”

“It’s their way of letting you know they like you.”

He scoffs. “Like boys pulling girls’ pigtails in the yard?”

“Something like that. They like having your attention.”

“They must be the only ones who do,” he grumbles.

“Hardly.”

There’s a pregnant pause.

“What can I do for you, anyway?” he says, evidently choosing his favourite defence mechanism—avoidance.

Daenerys is disappointed, but she won’t let it deter her. As frustrating as he is, she can’t blame him for being protective of the shattered fragments of his heart. She has made him so. It’s her job to make him see differently, to glue those pieces back together with a potter’s careful hand. To make his heart something new, but no less beautiful for the imperfections it has suffered.

And now is the time to put her plan into action.

“I’ve come with a bit of a bet for you,” she says.

Jorah raises an eyebrow at that. “A bet? I’m not sure about that.”

“I never had you down as someone who would shy away from a gamble.”

“Maybe I wouldn’t have as a youth. But I’m older and wiser now, and I never did win.”

“Where’s your sense of adventure? You were braver than anyone when it came to keeping me safe.”

He huffs. “I was hardly going to let you get hurt, was I?” The oath goes unsaid. He would have done anything to protect her because he was in love with her, and loving her meant sacrificing every part of himself.

“Well, this isn’t going to end up with either of us being hurt, I promise. So now will you do it? Please?” She employs her best beseeching look from under her lashes. Experience has taught her he melts for it every time. It’s probably unfair to use that against him, but he’ll see it was worthwhile in the end.

Jorah sighs, but he rubs his palm under his chin and she knows she’s victorious. “Fine, if you insist.”

She beams at him. “You won’t regret it.”

“I think that’s for me to decide,” he says, but there’s a teasing glint in his eyes. “Are you going to tell me what I’ve signed up for without getting any details first, like the fool that I am?”

“I’ve been thinking about something you said to me a while ago. How you’ve never been a Christmas person.”

Jorah’s expression drops at that. “Daenerys…”

“Hear me out,” she says. “I never enjoyed Christmas as a child either. I was too busy wondering why the world hated me so much. Viserys wasn’t much older than me and he never had any money for us. So seeing other people happy at Christmas filled me with envy. Now that I’m older and I have all this, I want to enjoy Christmases properly. I want the same for you.”

“That’s very kind of you, but it doesn’t work quite like that, I’m afraid.”

“Only because you’re afraid of it,” she says. “You are allowed to be happy.”

Jorah’s mouth flattens into a hard line, but he doesn’t voice the thoughts in his head. She doesn’t need him to. She can see them swirling in there like fire, fierce and hot.

_I might have been happy if you’d given me the chance._

Latent regrets that she’ll always have. Daenerys is lucky to have a second chance. Most men wouldn’t have given it, too prideful, too wounded. She won’t squander it.

“Twelve days is what I’m asking for,” she says. “I bet that in twelve days I can convert you to a Christmas lover.”

Jorah snorts. “You’d have more success getting Tyrion to stop drinking.”

Dany giggles. “The only thing Tyrion likes better than wine is women.”

“He’s got a different one for every day of the week if you believe what he says.”

“You know Tyrion. Small in stature…”

“Big around the mouth,” Jorah finishes for her. “Or around the cock, if you speak to Tyrion.”

They laugh together, and some of the tension leeches out of the atmosphere. Dany hitches herself up on the desk, relishing the way his eyes follow the rise of her skirt before he hastily averts them. She leans back on her hands so it rises another couple of inches for his benefit, biting the inside of her cheek to stop herself from smirking. He busies himself with retaking his seat and returning his attention to the CCTV.

“So here’s my proposition,” she says. “You give me twelve days and I give you twelve Christmas activities to complete, things you might not have had the chance to do that other people take for granted. Or things that you’ve not done for years, which will give you the chance to rediscover and re-enjoy them.”

He groans. “Gods, this sounds worse than I imagined. I’d rather not have to complete any activities.”

“You won’t be doing them alone, I’ll be doing them with you.”

“Oh.” _That_ gets his attention. He swivels in his chair. Tries to sound casual as he says, “That sounds a bit more enjoyable. It’s not much fun doing things on your own.”

Daenerys gives him a cheeky bob of the head, watching as his cheeks flood with heat.

“Not—I don’t mean—” he splutters.

Taking pity on him, she waves it off. “So, what do you say? Do we have a deal?”

“You’ve made it very clear to me that I don’t have a choice,” he sighs.

“Great,” she says. “Then I’ll be in touch shortly with your first clue.”

“Clue!? You didn’t mention anything about that before!”

“Well, I’m telling you now. Come on, it wouldn’t be much fun for me if I didn’t make you work for it, would it?”

“Fine, fine, if you insist. If it’ll make you happy then I’ll play along.”

“It would make me happy.” And that is what’s so beautifully tragic about Jorah Mormont. No matter how he might personally feel about something, if it will make her happy he will do it. No other man has ever treated her with such reverence. Other men have been exciting, dangerous, carefree, making the blood hum in her veins. But now she laments wasting time they might have had, how blind she had been to what was in front of her for so long. Exciting burns bright for a short time, but its intensity isn’t sustainable. The reliable kindling of coals is so much better. Jorah is steady and kind, but there’s an edge to him too, gruff recklessness that lets her know that there’s a bear inside just waiting to be unleashed. Allowing someone to know her more intimately than she even knew herself was frightening, but it was comforting too. She knew that in times of conflict and uncertainty she could count on him to be there for her no matter what. He had seen the worst parts of her but it hadn’t affected the way he saw her. He’d call her out if he disagreed with something, but she did not have to hide who she truly was around him. He alone had seen all sides to her, the good and the ugly, and he didn’t want to change her or bend her to his will.

He was her safest space.

He was her home.

She had taken a long time to come to that realisation. She had been looking in the wrong places, to the wrong people.

“Earth to Daenerys.”

Dany blinks, realising she’s been staring into space for the last few minutes. There’s a light frown brushing Jorah’s brows.

“Sorry,” she says. “I was miles away.”

“I could tell.” He isn’t the sort to pry further, and now is not the time for that particular discussion. So she clears her throat and hops off the desk.

“Right, I’d better get on,” she says. “I’ll see you later. Let me know if you find what you’re looking for.”

“I will,” he murmurs, and the double-meaning of her words isn’t lost on her. Giving her head a shake, she leaves him scrolling through the CCTV.

* * *

The day passes quickly. They rarely do anything else. There’s so much to keep them occupied, and no two days are ever the same. Jorah finds that one of the lads did indeed steal from the other so he has to hold a talk on the importance of honesty and respect. Most of the attendees are more interested in the biscuits and the hot chocolate than what Jorah has to say and he knows this, but he soldiers on regardless like the true warrior he is. Bless him, Dany thinks fondly. She gives him her full attention, leaning forward in her chair. His eyes keep meeting hers, and she gives him encouraging smiles and interested nods to let him know she’s listening. Gods, how could she so anything else? That _voice_. It’s dark chocolate, silk, fine northern whiskey all rolled into one. That gravelly husk on the end of his words, the roll of his Adam’s apple as he swallows, those strong, thick fingers running unconsciously through his thinning hair.

She finds herself wondering all over again how she could have been so blind.

There’s little chance to talk to him for the rest of the day. There are kids to see, families to reassure, meetings to have. _Breaker of Chains_ needs every ounce of her focus to be a success, and she owes that to the people it protects. She will never allow it to slip.

But finally, it’s the end of the say. Before she leaves she makes sure she slips Jorah his first clue, her fingers brushing his as she slips the paper into his palm.

“What if I can’t work it out?” he says.

“You will. I have faith in you. You’ve got until tomorrow evening. And if you really can’t…call me. Then I suppose I’ll have to give you the answer. Which isn’t nearly as fun but I don’t want to be sitting there alone.”

“All right. Have a good evening, Daenerys.”

“I will. You too.”

He raises his hand in farewell and departs, pulling his collar up against the chill of the wind. Dany watches him leave. Back to his small flat, back to his lonely life.

She has to change that.

“You’ve got it bad.”

Daenerys turns her head to find her best friend beside her. Missandei has approached in her usual manner, quiet, unassuming, steady. Like her very nature, her astute assertions are usually right on the money.

Still, Daenerys remains nonchalant. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Of course you don’t,” Missandei hums. “You look at all of the guys like that.” A beat. “Like you want to eat him. Or like you want _him_ to eat parts of you.”

“I’m not even going to acknowledge such coarseness,” she says in the most dignified tone she can muster.

“Only because you know it’s true.”

“You’ve been spending way too much time with Tyrion.”

“Perhaps. It doesn’t change the facts, though.”

“Oh, go away,” she grumbles.

Missandei laughs. “Fair enough. Torgo is coming to collect me so I’ll be out of your hair soon enough. Have a good evening.”

“You too, Missandei.”

Her friend gives her hand a brief squeeze. Torgo emerges from the cafeteria and Daenerys watches Missandei float across the room to his side. His usual grim expression lightens like storm clouds chased away by the sun. They give each other shy smiles and turn to leave together, their hands not quite brushing. At that, Daenerys feels a pang in her chest. That’s something she’s never had, not even with her past boyfriends. Drogo was all hard lines, unyielding, never one to show affection all that often—he barely ever kissed her. Daario had been different again, but he had been more interested in showing off with flashy flowers than he had been with any real intimacy.

She still has that small stash of books, secreted away in the back of her wardrobe. Worn, frayed, all a man could afford to give to help her learn of her homeland’s history. More precious than any other gift she has ever received.

The closest she’s got to real intimacy.

A rather sorry state of affairs, she thinks wistfully. All of her life never knowing what love was, be it romantic or familial.

Until him.

She wasn’t ready to face it then. But she’s over that fear now. She can have both love and success; unlike what she’s always believed, she doesn’t have to give one up for the other.

Now she is ready for both.

* * *

**Week One, Day One**

_The old has passed, there’s a new beginning…_

* * *

“I have it,” Jorah says low in her ear on the day of her first activity. He holds out the paper scribed with the words she wrote:

_Let us raise our voices in heavenly thanks._

“Good,” she says brightly. “I always believed you would. You’re not just your good looks, are you?”

He blushes at that. Brushes it off. “I don’t put stock in gods, Daenerys.”

“Neither do I.” None of them, the Seven, R’hllor, the old gods or drowned god, or any of the gods from across the Narrow Sea. None of them have ever come to her in her time of need. Only one man ever has. “But that doesn’t matter. It doesn’t have to be about beliefs. Or at least beliefs in higher powers. It can just be a way of reflecting on the good things in our lives.”

“All right, you don’t need to drone on at me like a septon,” he teases. “I’ll come with you. Just don’t expect me to partake in any of the rituals.”

“Fair enough. We can just take it in. Shall we go together?”

He blinks at that, clearly expecting that she would tell him to meet her there. “If that’s what you’d like.”

“Swing by mine at seven?”

“Okay,” he says, trying not to sound too pleased. He fails. She ducks her head to hide her smile.

“Great,” she says. “I’ll see you later.”

The day passes quickly, impeding any urge she might have to linger on the coming evening. There are ledgers to look over with Missandei, families to induct with Torgo and Barristan, quips and japes to fire back and forth with Varys, Tyrion, and Daario. She sees little of Jorah all day. He’s either hidden away in the back room or actively scouting for any signs of trouble. With the people she helps, there’s always the danger of drugs or violence. Flea Bottom is an impoverished area of King’s Landing, and the people who travel from Essos and beyond often have nothing, seeking a better life and finding themselves in the poorest part of the district.

Luckily, her team are more than equipped to handle it. Barristan has a wealth of experience, more than forty years in security. Tyrion knows the ins and outs of King’s Landing, a keen political player. Varys grew up overseas in Essos so understands its people; he has a good connection with the poorer folks of society. Daario, Torgo, and Missandei also hail from different places overseas and bring their own valuable skillsets to the table, an understanding of losing family, of knowing nothing of a new land.

And Jorah…well, Jorah applies himself to his trade with more fervour than anyone. He has his own unique experiences in security, grown up tough and hard with the north. And he has been with her the longest, has watched her grow and grown with her. He understands the way her mind works and her hopes and dreams better than anyone. He is her right hand, her confidante. She can’t imagine any of this without him.

She had ignored why for so long. Told herself that it wasn’t true. Distracted herself with other men.

That couldn’t work forever.

She has a lot to make up for, but she thinks her plan now will go a long way to that.

For the first time in a long time she leaves early. She wants to make a good impression tonight.

Once home, Dany gives quick fusses to her three precious cats. They purr and wind around her legs, happy to see her back so soon. They’re her babies, and they’ve been through a lot together. She will never forget the day she found them, tied up in a brown sack and dumped in the Dothraki Sea to die. She’d nursed each of them herself, keeping them safe and warm. Some think cats fickle creatures, but hers are fiercely loyal and fiercely loving. She likes to think that they know she saved them.

They like Jorah too. He is the only other person who saw them as helpless kittens, little bags of bones so close to death. He would carry them for her as they travelled from place to place. Nightly he would have new little needle marks on his arms and neck, where the kittens had sunk their claws into his weathered skin.

They cluster in the bathroom as she showers, flinching from the flecks of water which splash at them. Drogon, the big, fluffy beast, paces back and forth on the lino, fixing his orange eyes on her as if he knows that there is something different tonight.

“It’s only Jorah,” she tells him. “You like Jorah.”

Drogon flicks his tail. He’s a funny one. The most protective of them all. He had never liked Daario, hissing and growling whenever he came over. It must be a feline intuition.

Daenerys finishes getting dressed, pulling on jeans and a thick jumper. She would have liked to have worn something a bit more provocative, but the old gods are worshipped outside in the open beneath the gnarled old weirwood, with its knotted face and its bloody tears. The weather isn’t as bitter as it would be up in the real north, where Jorah originates, but she is a dragon and dragons like heat. Essos suited her for that. King’s Landing doesn’t get the snows of Winterfell but there are sometimes short flurries. She doesn’t want to be caught out. Although Jorah would probably lend her his jacket…

Daenerys amuses herself with those pleasant fantasies of him tugging the coat snug around her to keep her warm, his inviting, piney scent in her nostrils, as she wriggles on her thick boots. Once suitably attired, she heads downstairs to wait.

Jorah turns up right on time. He always does, materialising right where she needs him to be.

“Hi,” he says, leaning against the doorframe.

“Hey,” she returns. “Almost ready, won’t be long. Come in.”

He enters her apartment like a wary lion. It’s the first time he’s ever been here. Since their fight she’d been keeping him at arm’s length, distancing herself from him. Hurting him as punishment for what he did, but hurting herself in the process.

And none of it had been worth it in the end because it hadn’t changed things. She’d still cared about him.

Still loved him, even if she was unwilling and unable to see it at the time.

The cats appear to assess the visitor. When they realise it’s Jorah they patter down the stairs for a closer look, sniffing at him curiously. Rhaegal, the most affectionate, rubs his head against Jorah’s shin, purring. Jorah bends down to scritch his ears.

“I think they’ve missed you,” Daenerys comments, swinging her handbag over her shoulder.

He snorts. “Have they? I’m not so sure of that.”

“They have,” she insists. “They don’t act like that around just anyone, you know. Rhaegal and Viserion don’t mind Tyrion, but Drogon doesn’t.”

“Who does?” Jorah japes. “His talking would drive a septon to sin.”

Dany snorts. “According to the tales, it takes less than that.” The history books are filled with the tawdry, hypocritical antics of the holy men. “Anyway, let’s go.”

The walk across town is pleasant. At one time the old gods had been the dominant religion in Westeros, before the Andals took it from the First Men. The old gods had clung to power in the north, but most of the weirwood trees had been felled south of the Neck. In King’s Landing only one survives, in the grounds of the Red Keep.

The Red Keep belonged to her ancestors once. It’s a huge place, sprawling and formidable. That was when dragons allegedly roamed the skies and White Walkers crawled across the ground. Now it belongs to the National Trust.

The grounds are sparsely filled with worshippers. The people who follow the faith are as scant as the weirwood trees in the south. But, Dany thinks, it should work to their advantage. Less people means Jorah is more likely to relax.

They make their way to the others, slipping into line at the back. Jorah glances at his watch. “It’ll be starting any time soon.”

“It’s rather exciting, witnessing something new.”

“Take it from me, there’s nothing exciting about it.”

“Still, it’s got to be better than the Lord of Light’s ceremony.”

“And the Great Stallion’s,” he quips, and she shudders at the memory of _that_. Yes, there couldn’t be much out there that was worse.

A sacred kind of hush falls over the gathered as the ceremony begins. There isn’t a septon to lead them, or another holy man. Religion is between the individual and the old gods here, Jorah tells her. Each member of the small congregation bows their heads. Dany stares at the toes of her boots, listening to the gentle whispering of the crimson leaves above their heads. If she closes her eyes she can almost make out words. Whispers of encouragement. Affirmation that she is doing the right thing.

At last, the people around her begin to stir. Confused, Dany glances up at Jorah for guidance. He gives her a small smile.

“Like I said, worshipping the old gods is a personal matter,” he says. “Each individual will kneel before the heart tree and take a moment to give thanks and hopes. Some people do it aloud. Others keep it to themselves.”

“What about you?” she questions.

He shrugs, a little self-consciously. “I suppose I ought to do it aloud like the rest of my family would. But I’ve not been in touch with the gods in a long time, it’ll probably sound hollow.”

“Do what you’re comfortable with, not what your family approves of,” she tells him, then adds, with a playful nudge, “besides, they’re not here, and I won’t tell.”

Jorah smiles, inclining his head towards her. “Speaking sense as always.”

“It’s what I’m good at,” she teases. “Let’s go.”

They join the back of the small queue which has formed. Dany hears snatches of prayers on the wind, but the words are muffled. Just as Jorah said, for the individual and the gods.

At last it’s their turn. Jorah goes first, kneeling down on the spindled twigs that beckon them forward like bony fingers. He bows his head and clasps his hands. Daenerys stares at the back of his neck, waiting with baited breath.

“Jorah Mormont comes before the old gods,” he rasps, “to give thanks for the good fortunes I have been blessed with in the past year. I ask the gods to watch over the people I care about as I try my best to be worthy of any future blessings they may give me.”

He pauses for a moment more before rising. Keeping his gaze averted, he moves aside to wait for her. He’s embarrassed, she realises. Embarrassed that she listened in. He shouldn’t be, though. He hardly poured out his heart and soul. The words were no different to anyone else’s. At least on the surface. Beneath, she suspects that there is far more weight to his words than he lets on.

She approaches the tree and kneels down in its shadow. The boughs creak overhead, as if the tree is straining its roots to peer down at the newcomer. Dany glances at those wet eyes that track bloody tears down the moon white face, staining those cracked cheeks, but she lowers her head quickly. There is something vaguely sinister about these old gods, sitting there in silent judgement.

Taking her lead from Jorah, she begins, “Daenerys Targaryen comes before the old gods to give thanks for the things in my life, in particular my friends who have been my strength for so many years.” She pauses here to find Jorah’s eyes for a moment. Lingers. Hopes that he can pick up on the layered duality between them. “I ask the gods to watch over the people I love the most and give them another year of spring and hope.”

She pauses for a few moments before getting back to her feet. She raises her eyes to the tree one final time, staring into those bloody holes and hoping that the old gods, if they are really there, bless her with good luck as she moves forward with her plan.

Jorah doesn’t seem to know where to look as she makes her way to his side. Dany wonders if he did indeed catch her inference and is wondering how to respond to it. She hopes so. It will make her task easier.

But he merely thrusts his hands into his pockets and jerks his head. “We’d better go. The gods don’t like people crowding beneath them.”

“I never knew the old gods had so many rules,” she comments as they fall into step. “And people say the Seven are the ones who sit in judgement.”

“The gods are like the northerners. They like isolation and silent contemplations.”

“Or sullen silences as Tyrion would say,” she teases.

Jorah pulls a face. “You’re not funny.”

“I am a bit.” Taking a breath, she slips her hand into the crook of his arm. He starts at the contact, looking down at her hand.

She pretends not to notice, hoping that he won’t say anything. He doesn’t. But she does notice that his forearm does tighten just slightly, the muscle shifting beneath his skin, the safest way of squeezing her hand, perhaps. She tightens her grip in response.

“Where do you want to eat?” he asks, his voice wavering jjust slightly.

“How about you take me to a northern pub? I think we ought to continue the theme of the evening, don’t you?”

“What about The Old Wolf? That’s famous in these parts.”

“Named in honour of Cregan Stark, right?” she says as they exit the Red Keep’s grounds. “He’s one of the few Starks that did well in the south.”

“That’s right.”

“You sound surprised,” she teases. “I read those history books you gifted me from cover to cover, you know. It’s important to know these things. You taught me the importance of listening and learning.”

“I’m flattered you think so, but you did all of that yourself.”

She shrugs. “I know what people think of the Targaryen name. Viserys was a fool, he thought he was far above everyone else. He wasn’t interested in learning anything, he was just too focused on himself. So I vowed that I wouldn’t be like him. I would take the time to learn about the horrors as well as the triumphs.”

“You could never be anything like your brother,” Jorah says. “He was dangerous. To let _him_ loose on the world would have been catastrophic. Can you imagine your brother in your position of power?”

Dany shudders. “I think he would have burnt our house down to the ground.”

“He could never have inspired the loyalty you have. You need love to rule, not fear. I know you don’t like being accused of having a gentle heart, but it doesn’t have to mean weakness. In fact, it’s a strength. It takes more courage to accept flaws and work on them. That’s why you have the loyalty you do.”

It’s not a new conversation; whenever she felt like she was losing her grip on what she was trying to achieve, Jorah was always there to give her the pep talk she needed to continue. At times it had felt stifling; being aware of his feelings for her had made it seem hollow, either perfunctory or to curry favour. The poor man hadn’t been able to win at times, but he had taken her snapping with gentlemanly grace, never holding a grudge against her.

She’s not sure she could be as charitable if she saw him with another woman.

But he’s never faltered in his loyalty to her, that steadying presence she needs more than anything. And now is the time to reward him for all of his loyalty.

“I’m very lucky to have you, Jorah,” she tells him, leaning her cheek against his bicep as she steps closer, slipping her spare hand around his wrist. “I hope you know I feel that.”

“I do, Khaleesi.”

It’s probably not the truth. Since their bitter fallout, Jorah has never been quite the same, as if he doesn’t trust that this will last, that one day she will send him away for good.

She squeezes him tighter.

She hopes this Christmas will change that perspective forever.

* * *

**Week One, Day Two**

_Our finest gifts we bring…_

* * *

Their night out together seems to have given Jorah a boost. He walks with a new swagger in his step, his chest puffed. It’s rather sweet. If their time together continues on like this, he’ll be brimming with confidence. Perhaps he’ll be the one to make the first move, sweep her off her feet—

“Daenerys?”

She shakes herself out of her stupor to find Jorah in front of her.

“Hello!” she says brightly. “Thanks for stopping by.”

“Missandei said it was important?”

“It is. I’ve got the second clue for you.”

He huffs, but he can’t hide the affectionate curl of his lips as he shakes his head. “Is that all?”

“Is that all!?” she echoes incredulously. “Jorah, this is the most important thing you will do all day. You’ve got until Saturday to work it out.”

He unfolds the scrap of paper, his eyes sliding from left to right as he takes in her words.

_Prepare yourself for a day of sightseeing in King’s Landing’s famed streets!_

“I don’t need until Saturday,” he grumbles. “It’s shopping, isn’t it?”

“ _Christmas_ shopping,” she corrects him.

“There’s a difference?”

“Of course there is. Christmas shopping is a joyful experience. It’s about getting that warm glow from purchasing something you know someone else will love.”

“I expect you get more out of that than I do,” says Jorah.

“Oh, stop pretending to be unfeeling. I know you’re a softie at heart.” The biggest there is, wearing his heart on the outside of his body where it’s in constant danger of shrivelling with that cancerous failing of hope. “Meet me outside The Crowned Stag at ten.”

And so the arrangement is made.

Saturday morning dawns pale grey. Thick clouds blanket the sky, crawling with leisurely lethargy across the landscape. When she opens the window to test the air outside, the wind stings Daenerys’ cheeks. It’s an odd day, perhaps mirroring the apprehension that swirls around inside her.

A whole day alone with Jorah. When was the last time they had that? She can’t remember. Probably in Qarth. But even then there had always been eyes on them, waiting for any opportunity to test them.

She’s a little nervous. Which is ridiculous, really, considering all they’ve experienced together, but it’s a fact nevertheless. Never before has she been so acutely aware of what she feels. Of what she is attempting to do.

Still, she’s conquered worse fears before. And at the end of it he’s still Jorah Mormont, her dependable right hand.

Taking comfort from that, she finishes getting ready, feeds her three children, and heads out the door.

Jorah is already waiting for her outside The Crowned Stag. He raises his hand in greeting when he spots her, and she quickens her pace.

“Hi,” she says breathlessly as she reaches him.

“Hi,” he replies, nodding at her ensemble “You look nice.”

“Thanks. Sorry I’m late.”

“Not at all. Where do you want to start? I’m at your mercy today.”

She fights down a smirk at the delicious imagery that that conjures up. If only. “Well, I thought we could just browse, see what we come across. I’ve made a list of people I need to buy gifts for.”

“No problem. My list is very small, so I should be done in no time.”

“Who’s on your list?”

“That would be telling, wouldn’t it?”

They continue down the busy Street of Sisters together. Any earlier trepidation melts away now Dany is with him. They are as they have always been together.

They spend a pleasant morning around the shops on the Street of Sisters. Here is catered more towards women than men, with clothes shops galore advertising the latest fashions. Dany finds a pretty scarf for Missandei, lavender in colour and made from silk, decorated in purple butterflies. Missandei has told her tales of the butterflies in Naath, which are poisonous to all but the natives. She hopes it will remind her of her homeland.

Jorah hasn’t purchased anything yet. He’s wandered around at the back of her like a dutiful husband, but has shown little interest beyond that.

“Who _have_ you got to get something for?” she asks.

“Not many,” he replies evasively.

“If you tell me who, I can help you with gifts. I happen to be very good at knowing what people will like.”

“I’m sure. But if you want the truth…you’re the only person on my Christmas list, Daenerys.”

She blinks. “Oh.”

“Yes, it’s rather embarrassing having to admit something like that. My family have disowned me, and while I respect everyone we work with, they’re either like Torgo, who isn’t interested in gifts, like me, or there’s Tyrion, who I _really_ don’t want to buy a gift for.”

“Well, I’m flattered to be on your list,” she says, and means it. To be the only one…it makes her feel special.

“I’m not sure this shopping trip is going to be a great success if you’re with me,” he says. “I’ll end up coming on my own again.”

“How about we split up for an hour? After all, you’re on my list too. We could use the time to get something for each other and meet back up for a bite to eat.”

“Are you sure? Is it wise to leave you alone?”

“Funnily enough, I’ve walked the streets on my own plenty of times before. I’ve not been killed yet.”

“People have tried,” he points out. “Without Barristan in Astapor…”

“Are you trying to tell me that you would have failed me?” she teases.

“I certainly hope not. But the fact remains that I wasn’t as quick as I should have been. And if you’d been alone…”

“Jorah, I can’t spend the rest of my life looking over my shoulder. Otherwise I _will_ go mad like my father did. I’m safe here, and I have wonderful people around me. Especially you.”

“I think you give me too much credit.”

“I don’t give you enough.” Dany reaches out and slips her fingers around his wrist. “I promise, I’ll be fine. I’ll keep my phone with me. If anything happens, you’ll be the first person I call.”

“You’re not funny,” he grumbles, but his lips twitch, betraying him. “If you need me for anything call me. I’ll meet you outside Moonstags in an hour.”

They part ways then. Daenerys watches Jorah disappear before slipping into a doorway out of the way of the crowds. What _should_ she get Jorah this year? They don’t do extravagant tokens. That’s Daario’s thing, but she doesn’t like it. She doesn’t need showering in gold. She wants something meaningful. Jorah is the master of simplicity and thoughtfulness. Once he bought her a dragon plush. Another time he gifted her with picture frame with a collection of photos of her with her friends over the years. They were things that other people might find too small, but that made them all the more precious to her, for he had taken the time to think about his gifts.

She wants to get him something special. Of course, she already has one thing planned, which she knows will be the most treasured gift of all—even if it is a little arrogant to say so. But she wants him to have something else too, a physical manifestation of all that they share.

She spends the first half an hour wandering aimlessly, peering into windows steaming with the contrast of fire and ice. There are things she sees that might be okay, but they don’t feel quite right.

But then she sees it.

It’s in the window of a little woodworker’s shop, filled with little handmade trinkets of every wood imaginable.

The one that catches her attention is a roughly carved bear.

It’s made from weirwood; little veins of white run through the rough surface where the creator has missed with the brown paint. It has little black quartzes for eyes. When it catches the light in a certain way, it appears to be following her with its gaze.

It reminds her of Jorah, and she knows she must purchase it.

She enters the shop and scoops the little bear into the palm of her hand. It’s a surprisingly heavy thing, perhaps weighted down by all of the magic a weirwood tree supposedly holds. She takes it up to the front desk, where a man with lines on his face almost as deep as the cuts in the bark stands, leaning on it for support.

“This is a fine piece of work,” she says. “How much is it?”

“Three silver stags,” he says in a cracking old voice.

“Do you take requests?” she wonders.

“I do sometimes. It depends on how busy I am.”

“Would you take one for me?”

He studies her a moment. “I would.”

“That’s great. Could you carve me a dragon made of weirwood to go along with the bear? And could you make them a little stand so they’re together?”

“I could.” His clouded eyes stare right through her. “You’re a Targaryen, aren’t you?”

“I am.” She juts out her chin, refusing to be intimidated. Most people know it when they see her. The Valyrian genes are wondrously rare, god-like.

“I will need a week. Can you pick it up then?”

“Yes, that’s fine. Thank you.”

She pays for the bear and tucks it into her bag before stepping back out onto the street. The first flurries of snow have started, swirling round in a dizzying waltz. She pulls the collar of her coat up and hurries down the bustling high street. The clock face on the sept of Baelor, which towers above the whole city, claims that the hour is almost up. It’s time to get to Moonstags, or Jorah will begin to worry.

He’s already waiting for her, leaning casually against the window, hands deep in his pockets. Dany quickens her pace to reach him.

“Sorry, you haven’t been waiting long, have you?” she asks, brushing an errant strand of silver hair out of her eyes.

“No,” he reassures her. “Besides, you’re not late. If you were I would have sent out a search party.”

Daenerys rolls her eyes at that. “Did you find something, at least?”

“I might have,” he answers cryptically. “You?”

“I might have,” she echoes, raising an eyebrow at him. “Anyway, let’s get something to eat and drink.”

“Sounds like a good plan,” he agrees. “After you, Khaleesi.”

Inside Moonstags is warm and cosy, with fat armchairs and crackling fireplaces. There’s a cacophony of noise from its patrons, everyone in high sprits for the coming season.

They manage to find a table right at the back of the shop, squeezed in amongst the Christmas plants. Jorah bids her stay, then goes to order despite her protests. He brings back festive coffee and a sample of every cake in the shop.

The rest of the day is wonderful, one of the best Daenerys has had in a while. They spend a couple of hours whiling away the time in the coffee shop, reminiscing over good days gone by; in those moments, with the atmosphere more intimate and warmer than ever, Dany wants to lean over and kiss him, tasting the lingering sweetness of the cake on his tongue.

But she resists. Now is not the right time. Irri and Jhiqui would tell her that the Dothraki omens don’t favour it. So she will bide her time, even if right now it feels like it will kill her.

She thinks Jorah is having a similar dilemma; his eyes flicker between her own and her lips. There’s a gleam there, a desire she cannot deny. He lets it peek through so rarely, but when it does it’s with the intensity of a prophecy, heavy with all that expectation. At one time, she’d thought it too much to handle, overwhelming, suffocating.

Now? She thinks she can handle it very well.

“We should get going,” she says, a touch breathlessly.

“You’re right,” he says, checking his watch. “Have you got much else to do?”

“Not much. You don’t mind coming with me?”

“Not at all. It’s fun.”

“I doubt that, but I’ll try to make it more enjoyable for you.”

And so she does. By jamming silly hats onto his head, by decking herself out in outlandish clothes. By picking out awful gifts for Tyrion as revenge for his mocking of Jorah. They laugh together, free, and it’s like how it used to be, when they were in Eastern Markets in Vaes Dothrak together.

The sun has set when they finally call it a day. Jorah offers to help her walk home with the bags, but she waves him away.

“I’ll take a taxi,” she assures him. “It’s going out of your way otherwise.”

“I don’t mind.”

“No, really, it’s fine. Thank you for a lovely day.”

“Thank you for making it bearable.”

She giggles. “There’s no chance of you giving me a clue about the gift you bought me?”

“Are you going to give me a clue about mine?”

“No.”

“There’s your answer, then.”

They chuckle, and she reaches out to squeeze his forearm. “I’ll see you Monday, Jorah.”

“I’ll wait for you getting in the taxi.”

“Are you sure?”

“Of course I am.”

She nods and pulls her phone out to ring. It’s still early on a Saturday evening, with taxis not yet in high demand, and they tell her that her wait will only be a few minutes.

Right on cue, the taxi pulls up at the kerb, idling its engine. Jorah helps her stow her bags on the backseat.

“I’ll see you Monday,” she says softly.

“You will. Have a good weekend.”

“I will. You too.”

She buckles herself into her seat, twisting so that she can see him in the back window, slowly disappearing from sight.

* * *

**Week Two, Day Three**

_We’re all skating on the same thin ice…_

* * *

The following Wednesday, Daenerys approaches Jorah in the cafeteria at lunch. He’s sitting alone, tucking in to a bowl of Hot Pie’s famous steak pie. She slides into the seat opposite him, ignoring Missandei’s burning look. It’s rare for them to sit apart when they’re in the cafeteria together, but she’d told Missandei earlier that she wouldn’t be making it there today because she had too much work to do. Indeed, Jorah looks surprised to see her.

“Khaleesi?” he says. “Missandei said that you were busy.”

“I am. But am I not allowed to take a break?”

“Of course. But Missandei seems to be suspicious.” He nods in the young woman’s direction, and Dany glances across to find her still staring at them, eyes narrowed.

She’s too intuitive, Dany thinks with a huff. No doubt she will be grilled again later on. But she puts that to the back of her mind for now. “Never mind Missandei. I’ve come to ask if you’re busy on Friday evening.”

“I think you’re mistaking me for Daario,” he replies sardonically. “I don’t have an exciting social life. My plans did consist of watching the Westerlands vs the Riverlands game.”

“Is it something you can bear to miss?”

“I have no ties to either team, so yes, I can.”

“Excellent. I have another plan for us.”

“I don’t suppose you’re going to be kind enough to tell me?”

“No, you’re going to have to guess.”

“What if I work it out and decide that I’d rather watch the game after all?”

He earns himself a swat for that, but it only makes him chuckle. She grins too, leaning in closer.

“Are you trying to tell me that you’d rather watch sweaty men running up and down than spend the time with mw, ser?” she coos, ensuring that she adds a rolling purr to her last word. She doesn’t fail to notice his arms pricking with goosebumps.

“It depends,” he replies, trying to maintain his stoic veneer.

“If you’d rather stay at home…”

“Give me the clue and then I’ll decide.”

They stare at each other across the table, and Dany feels a frisson of heat low down in her belly. This is what’s been sorely absent for a long time. Before everything, the betrayals and the confessions, they had had this easiness between them, a type of flirtatious banter, a bouncing off of each other with no thought, no cares, no awareness.

“Here’s your clue,” she says, sliding the piece of paper across the table to him. He slides it towards the edge of the table as if he’s one of their young charges making a dodgy drug deal, slipping it into his pocket to be read later. She doesn’t think he’ll struggle too much. There are only so many things that _the opposite to fire, slipping and sliding_ can be.

“Right, I’d better get on,” she says, swiping a chip from his plate. “I’ll eat the rest of my dinner at my desk. Let me know when you’ve worked it out and if you think you can bear to tear yourself away from the game.”

“Yes, Khaleesi.”

She tips him a wink, steals another chip for the journey, and heads off.

* * *

Jorah catches her the next morning as she arrives. It’s early, barely past the hour of the nightingale, and she covers her yawn with a fist, still bleary-eyed. By contrast he is gallingly fresh-faced and impossibly handsome, the grey light highlighting the ginger in his beard and hair.

“You’re early,” she comments as they fall into step.

“I thought I’d catch you before your attention is divided elsewhere,” he teases.

“Are you trying to say I neglect you, ser?”

“Not at all. I know you’re a very busy woman. Still, I like to have your attention sometimes.”

“I promise to give you that attention now.”

“I appreciate it.”

“Now, back to the clue…”

“It’s ice skating, isn’t it?”

She beams at him. “It is!”

“An odd choice for a dragon.”

“Why’s that?”

She knows she sounds indignant, but he only laughs. “Have you ever ice skated before, Khaleesi?”

“Well, no,” she admits. “But I’ve seen people do it before. I think I can pick it up. It’s all about balance, isn’t it? My balance has always been good.”

“Ah, the naivety of first timers. There’s far more to it than that.”

“You’ve skated before?”

“Of course. Northerners learn how to skate from birth.”

Dany rolls her eyes. “Sure. There are new-born babies who can’t walk or talk pirouetting all over the ice, are there?”

He chuckles at her sarcasm. “You might not believe me, but it’s close enough. Bear Island has an abundance of lakes and streams. In the dead of winter they freeze over with a layer of ice so thick that only the heaviest of axes and the strongest of wielders can penetrate it. You could build a hut atop it and it wouldn’t give way. Sometimes the snows are so high that it’s impossible to pass through them on the horses, never mind on foot. The best way to pass through it is on skates or by sled. We all learn young so we can assist our people when the cold winds rise and the snowstorms savage our lands.”

“When was the last time you skated?”

“When I was a young man, a while before I left Bear Island.”

“So you’ve probably lost a lot of your skills…”

Jorah puffs out his chest. “Bear Islanders never forget anything we learn.”

Daenerys bites her lip, suppressing the urge to ask whether that extends to other aspects of island life. She’s pretty sure that he’s picked up many, _many_ skills over the years when it comes to pleasuring a woman.

The thought makes her warm all over, and she has to push those steamy images away. Now is not the time to dwell on them. It’s too early in the morning to get herself all hot and bothered.

“Then let’s have a wager,” she says. “I bet I’m a better skater than you are.”

“Bold words, Khaleesi. Ones you’ll regret. I’ll take that wager. What are the stakes?”

“How about the loser buys the winner dinner and gets bragging rights for eternity?”

“Seems a bit unfair to you. Who chooses the place to dine? The winner?”

“But of course. And I intend to choose the fanciest place in town. How does The Gilded Rose sound?”

“Exquisite, but I’m afraid you will be footing the bill.”

“Don’t be overconfident. You know how that usually goes.”

“I do. But in this case it will be a surety.”

“We’ll see whose laughing at the end of it all.”

“Yes, Khaleesi, we will.”

* * *

As it turns out, neither one of them particularly wants to laugh at the beginning.

Friday evening is cold and dark; Daenerys’ breath mists in front of her as she walks down the winding street with Jorah by her side. The ice rink has been set up on the outskirts of King’s Landing on the Goldroad, and people flock from all over the city, from parents with their small children to young couples looking for something fun to do. Lights twinkle and Christmas songs blare from speakers. On the veranda overlooking the rink, people mill around tables, nursing cups of warm wine as they laugh and exchange stories. The scent of smoke and meat permeates the air, the merry popping and crackling as flames dance and jump, bathing the place in warm light.

The rink itself is packed with people but the patron, a fat man in flamboyant silks, is more than happy to take their coin. Jorah insists on paying despite this being Daenerys’ idea, citing that it’s the only thing he will be paying for tonight and he doesn’t want to bleed her dry.

They collect their skates and put them on. Dany has to admit that clonking her way to the rink is an odd experience, but she’s still confident that all will be fine on the ice. She’s a Targaryen, after all. Targaryens are naturally gifted when it comes to all things.

“Are you sure you don’t want a skating aid?” Jorah asks, jerking his head in the direction of a child who clings to a penguin walker with the look of a soldier regretting his misfortune of being dragged into a high lord’s game of thrones as expendable cannon fodder.

“No,” she scoffs. “I’m not a child.”

“You’re a sweet summer child if you think you’re going to glide gracefully like a dragon,” Jorah laments. “But on your own head be it.”

With that, he steps on to the ice and, after a slight wobble as he finds his feet, glides a few paces on, doing a tidy revolution so he can face her.

It’s her turn. It’s her moment.

Daenerys takes a deep breath and places one foot on the ice. It slides threateningly under the blade, and she makes a grab for the side instinctively.

Jorah raises his eyebrow at her, and hot embarrassment flushes through her. She can’t prove him right so early. She’s a Targaryen. She has to push on towards her goal.

Steeling her nerves, she moves her other foot on to the ice and lets go of the barrier.

There’s no warning.

The blades on the skates slip with alarming speed.

Daenerys can’t stifle a shriek as her arms pinwheel in a vain attempt to find her balance.

No such luck.

It all seems to happen in slow motion.

Her feet slip out from under her. There’s a whoosing in her stomach as she flails backwards. She has the chance to muse how pretty the stars look as they twinkle at her with mirth, the gods punishing her arrogance. She hears Jorah call out her name, the amusement giving way to concern.

And then pain jars through her entire body, so absolute that it paralyses her. Her lungs seize up on the impact, and she can’t draw the air she needs into her lungs.

For a moment, she doesn’t remember where she is. Even her own name.

And then someone is right there bedside her, kneeling on the ice, lifting her shoulder blades onto a lap and palming her cheek with a cold, wet hand that makes her instinctively jerk away.

“Stay still,” the voice soothes, and her addled brain realises that it’s Jorah, come to her rescue once again. “Did you hit your head?”

Her tongue feels thick and foreign in her mouth but she manages, “No.”

Jorah breathes a sigh of relief. “That’s good. At least you won’t have cracked your head open or are in any danger of concussion. Are you hurt anywhere else?”

Daenerys gingerly moves a leg, then hisses an expletive as white-hot pain lances through her ankle. “My leg.”

“We should get it checked out,” says Jorah, sliding his hand from her face to her neck; for a moment his thumb brushes over her bottom lip and she is filled with the addled desire to take that thumb into her mouth. But no, the moment is a fleeting dream; his fingers caress her neck, pressing as if searching for any other signs of damage.

“I’m fine,” she gasps, her wincing giving her away.

“Daenerys, you’re not.”

“I don’t want to go to the hospital. It’s just a sprain. We’d only be wasting everyone’s time, and I’d rather not spend the entire evening waiting for a maester to see me. Especially if it turns out to be Qyburn. That guy makes me uncomfortable.” She’s seen him only once before, and there had been something entirely unnerving about the way he had examined her as if she was some sort of newly-discovered specimen. He’d kept muttering something about the Targaryen genetics under his breath. And Pycelle is just as bad, if not worse; when _he’d_ seen her, he’d been far too handsy, brushing the swell of her breasts on the pretext of feeling her heartbeat.

“I don’t have to take you to the hospital. I know someone, he’s a friend. Patched me up before. He’ll be happy to take a look at it for you. We’ll be done in no time.”

“No, there’s no need.”

Jorah’s mouth forms a grim line, but he doesn’t argue with her, not like he would have done in the past. “Can you sit up while I stand? I’ll help you then.”

She does as she’s bid, wincing as the cold seeps further into her bottom. Perhaps this wasn’t such a good idea after all.

Jorah wastes no time in getting to his feet, managing it with a grace that a man of his size and demeanour with his gruff northern features shouldn’t be able to master.

“Let me help you up now,” he says, bending down to wrap his hands around her wrists. “Use me as support. I won’t let you fall.”

She knows that it’s the truth. He would rather die than hurt her, even if it’s a mistake, even if it’s unintentional. He won’t fail her ever again.

She gives him a nod and tentatively attempts to find her feet. More pain flashes through her ankle and she grits her teeth against it, refusing to let it show as more than a tremor. But Jorah senses it anyway, the way he always does. He grits his own teeth in response and the muscles in his forearms tense as he pulls her to her feet. She steadies herself against his chest and he holds her firm.

You’re going to see someone,” he says. “I’m putting my foot down. You need to make sure that you haven’t broken anything, otherwise walking about on it will only exacerbate it.”

“What, like you used to get your injuries checked out in Essos?” she says pointedly.

“That was different. Half of the time we didn’t know who we could trust.”

Dany rolls her eyes. Men. None of her loyal companions would ever see a doctor if they got roughed up on a more unsavoury job. Instead they would tend each other’s wounds as best they could. They rarely let her see the extent of their injuries but in the earliest days, when it had been her and Jorah against the rest of the world, she had played the nurse. She will never forget the fear that had poisoned her veins when she had seen the knife wound he had taken to the hip in a Dothraki brawl. She’d had to bandage it herself, wrapping swathes around him, her hands slippery with his blood. She’d gone to bed that night with the metallic tang of blood cloying her nostrils and had nightmare after nightmare about losing him. Truly, it was a miracle he had survived at all. He probably still has a nasty scar there, white and jagged and raised.

Perfect for running her tongue over as a precursor to more.

“Daenerys, are you listening to a word I’m saying?”

“Yes!” she says, too quickly and a touch guiltily.

Jorah narrows his eyes, disbelieving. “Hold on to me. I’ll get us off the ice.”

She wants to argue with him, but the set of his jaw advises her that he won’t listen. As much as she wants to pull rank, she knows he will only resent her for that and will brood that his opinion hasn’t been taken seriously. And she does trust him. Trusts that he won’t take her to someone with the scruples of Qyburn or Pycelle. It had taken all of her command to prevent him from going to them and killing them himself when she had complained about them to him.

Though far from happy, she nods.

Jorah relaxes at that.

“The easiest way for me to get you back is to carry you,” he says.

“What?”

“It’s only a few paces. You’ll be back on solid ground in no time. And no offence, but I don’t trust you to get back without injuring yourself further.”

He has a point there. The earth below her feet feels so perilous that she’s sure just the tiniest movement will send her crashing once more. It’s not ideal—she doesn’t want to be seen as some sort of damsel in distress, unable to help herself—but she trusts Jorah. He will get her back.

So she nods.

“Good,” he says. “Now, I’m just going to guide you to side-face so I can get a better hold of you, okay?

She nods again, and he manoeuvres her carefully. The ground beneath her feet threatens to disappear again and she wobbles perilously, but Jorah is strong and sure, and she remains upright.

“I’m going to lift you now,” he informs her. “When I bend, put your arms around my neck.”

“Okay.” Dany braces herself, and wraps her arms around his broad, muscular shoulders when she feels his hand in the crook of her knees. He takes a moment to ensure he has a sturdy base before lifting with a huff. In that second that horribly unstable surface is left behind and she soars, right into the safe embrace of the man she has fallen in love with.

He holds her with tender security, drawing her closer to his body.

“Just a few seconds and it’ll be over,” he murmurs against her hair, his breath warm, the whisper making goosebumps prickle pleasantly.

Others on the ice gawp at them as they pass, children pointing and giggling at the lady who can’t skate. Humiliation isn’t something that sits well with Daenerys, but she turns her face into Jorah’s chest and closes her eyes to the sneering, choosing to focus instead on the cadence of Jorah’s breath and the rasp of his stubble against her temple.

In a few brief strides they’re back against the barrier. Jorah carefully lowers her to a bench and bends to untie her skates. He removes her left first, his broad palms sliding against her heel and the back of her ankle. She shivers at the sensation, barely resisting the urge to grab his hand and slide it up her leg.

He’s more careful with her right, easing the skate off with infinite gentleness. Her ankle throbs in protest even to that.

“Do you think you can get your shoe back on? Or bear any weight on it at all?” he probes softly.

“I don’t know,” she answers honestly.

“Samwell Tarly doesn’t live too far from here. I can carry you if I have to.”

“I’ll manage. I don’t want people staring.”

“I thought Daenerys Targaryen didn’t care what people thought?” he teases.

“It’s usually under different circumstances to this. Besides, I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You’re light as a feather. I can manage. Or we can get a taxi. Let me make a call. You wait here.”

He moves a few paces away and pulls out his phone. Daenerys watches him, his mannerisms, the way he runs a hand through his hair or gesticulates. It warms her. She had all of these little things to learn and enjoy in the years to come.

He returns soon enough.

“Sam’s home,” he tells her. “He’ll see you. His girlfriend Gilly will wait outside for us so she can take us up to their flat.”

The mention of a girlfriend calms her just slightly. On top of him being someone that Jorah knows, it’s another indicator that Samwell Tarly can’t be all bad.

In the end, on her insistence, they get a taxi. They arrive at their destination in no time.

A young woman stands outside one of the complexes, a toddler in her arms. Jorah helps Dany out of the car and supports her as she hobbles across the street.

“Jorah Mormont?” the girl asks nervously.

“Yes. This is Daenerys Targaryen. And you must be Gilly?”

“That’s right. Sam’s waiting upstairs. I’ll show you.”

They follow her up a short flight of stairs to a cramped flat.

“I’m going to get Little Sam settled,” Gilly says awkwardly. “Nice to meet you.”

Samwell Tarly enters the room then. He’s a large man, almost intimidating in size, but his round face is soft and kind.

“Hello,” he says, dipping his head nervously in Jorah’s direction. “It’s nice to see you again, Jorah.”

“And you, Sam.”

“And you must be Daenerys Targaryen,” Sam says, giving her a shy glance.

“That’s right.”

“Jorah told me you’ve hurt your ankle. Can I take a look?”

He helps her over to the sofa. Jorah, ever the gentleman, excuses himself to give her some privacy, withdrawing to the corridor.

Sam helps her with her shoe and sock, and feels around her ankle. She winces, but keeps quiet, determined not to be seen as a weakling. He handles her gently, taking his time to check with precision, before sitting back.

“It’s not broken,” he announces. “Just be careful bearing your weight on it for the next few days.”

Dany nods. “Thank you.”

“No problem. If I can help the Mormonts, I always do.”

Daenerys’ ears prick. “You know other members of Jorah’s family?”

“I know his father too, Jeor.”

That takes her by surprise. “You do?”

“Yes. I worked with him at the Night’s Watch for a while. He was like a father to me. Better than my own. I met Jorah after, and he’s a good man too.”

“He is,” Daenerys says softly. “Do you keep in touch with Jeor?”

“I do. He’s actually going to be in town soon, we’re putting him up. He rarely comes down to King’s Landing.”

“That’s interesting…”

They part ways soon after, Daenerys clasping Sam’s hands tight between both of hers.

“Thank you, Sam,” she says. “For everything.”

He blushes. “It was nothing.”

Jorah claps him on the back. “I appreciate it.”

“Any time,” the lad stammers.

One day in the future, Sam will deliver her babies himself, each of them red-faced and screaming, the perfect blend of Targaryen and Mormont, little dragon cubs so perfect in their duality; Daenora will come first. Exhausted, doused in sweat, but deliriously relieved, Daenerys will clutch at Sam’s sleeve and thank him once more; Jorah’s voice will crack as he blesses him for guiding mother and baby through unscathed as Jeor Mormont paces outside the door waiting for news. In the garden outside, their friends will gather with bated breath to hear the news; when they do, Tyrion will lead the wetting of the baby’s head, and Missandei will joke that the eldest Mormont daughter will marry her and Torgo’s son.

For now, Sam sees them off at the door, a protective arm around Gilly’s shoulders.

Daenerys still moves gingerly, loath to put more pressure than necessary on her injured ankle, but Jorah at least is more relaxed now he knows there’s no significant damage.

“Do you still want to grab a bite to eat?” he asks.

Though her pride has been thoroughly shredded by bear’s claws, she still nods. “I _am_ hungry.”

Jorah grins at her. “Is The Gilded Rose still on?”

She grimaces at that, but a wager is a wager. “Yes.”

“Then let’s go, Khaleesi.”

And so they do. But it’s not like anything she expected.

Despite winning the wager, Jorah insists on paying for everything.

“I think you’ve suffered enough tonight,” he teases. “I’ll take this one for you. Order whatever you like. I think you need the cheering.”

“A bet is a bet, Jorah. I should stand by what we agreed.”

“I’ll cash in the debt another day when you’re less vulnerable.”

“I’m not a Lannister. I can’t promise I will pay that debt.”

“I’ll take that risk,” he says.

They dine like royalty. Despite the unexpected start to the evening, Daenerys enjoys herself immensely. The ambience is relaxed and the conversation flows. She takes Jorah’s quips with grace, and afterwards he insists on seeing her home safely. He walks her right to the door and waits while she finds her keys.

“Thank you,” she says, turning towards him. “I had a lovely evening, catastrophic beginning aside.”

“So did I,” he agrees.

“I wish you would let me at least give you something towards the cost.”

“No. It’s no problem, I assure you.”

“At least let me give you one thing.”

“What?”

“This.”

She closes the gap between them, rising on her tiptoes. He sucks in a breath. She rests her hands on his shoulders for balance and leans up.

Her lips find the scruff of his cheek. He goes rigid.

For what could have been seconds, minutes, hours, _years_ , neither of them move. For a golden period, everything else is forgotten.

But golden moments are made to blaze bright for a short, glorious moment before fading to rust.

Jorah is the one to pull away, not quite sure where to look.

“Goodnight, Khaleesi,” he murmurs.

“Goodnight,” she whispers, and watches him walk away.

There is one thing she is certain of:

Whatever else he’s done today, the kiss she’s bestowed upon him is the best thank you he could have had.

* * *

**Week Two, Day Four**

_Oh the weather outside is frightful, but the fire is so delightful…_

* * *

It takes a couple of days for Daenerys’ ankle to start feeling better. She’s done her best to keep off it at work, spending most of her time behind her desk, which is completely out of the ordinary.

“Want me to rub it better for you?” Daario winks in front of Jorah, no doubt to make him bristle.

She declines.

Gradually, however, things do improve and she is able to resume her normal duties. The time behind her desk has given her plenty of hours to plan her next gambit.

It’s a bit of a risk, this one. She isn’t sure that it’s something Jorah will go for. Not because it’s horrifically unbearable, but because he shies away from any potential embarrassment as soon as he can.

And if the others were to find out…

But Dany admonishes herself on that. No one will know.

Of course, she doesn’t take into account Missandei’s intuition. Her best friend is exceedingly clever. Almost as clever as Tyrion, who is infamous for his ability to talk his way out of sticky situations, his ability to construct careful plans that will yield his desired results, and his ability to read the moods of those around him to mould himself into the person he needs to be for that particular situation.

Thankfully, Missandei has none of Tyrion’s arrogance, no doubt born from being a member of one of Westeros’ most powerful families.

A fact that Dany must be grateful for.

On this frosty morn, Missandei surprises her by turning up for work early.

She had expected no one to be in at this time. The sky outside is still dark, gripped in the hour of the wolf. It had been the perfect time to log online and put her plan in motion.

Now there is a spanner in the works.

Both women freeze at the sight of each other. Daenerys scrambles to minimise her screen.

“Missandei!” she greets, her voice pitching upwards with guilt, as if she’s been caught watching something she shouldn’t. “What are you doing here?”

Missandei blushes, evidently casting round for a lie. But the Naathian is terrible at that, Dany knows, so she sighs and settles for the truth instead. “Torgo is coming in early. I thought I’d catch him before everyone else arrives.”

“I see,” Dany smirks.

“It’s not like that!” Missandei insists, the pinking of her cheeks belying her words. “We’re just friends. We just haven’t had the chance to see each other much this week, that’s all, and he’s going to be out most of the day with the younger lads.”

“Of course,” she soothes, but inside she’s doing a jig. Missandei and Torgo would be _perfect_ together and it’s about time they stopped dancing round each other.

“What about you?” Missandei swiftly changes the subject, catching her off-guard.

“Me?”

“Yes, you. What were you looking at log cabins for?”

Daenerys curses. Damn Missandei. She’s too observant for her own good. “I’m thinking of taking a little break this weekend, that’s all. It’s been years since I did anything like that. I wasn’t aware that it was a crime.”

Missandei raises an eyebrow. “I wasn’t aware that I was accusing you of anything.” Glancing at her watch, she ventures further into the room and pulls out a chair. “Who were you going with?”

For the second time she is caught off-guard by her friend’s directness. “What?”

“Don’t act coy. Who were you taking?”

“I was going on my own.”

“Rubbish.”

“Excuse me?”

“Come on, don’t pretend you don’t know what I mean. Log cabins are romantic. There’s no way that you’re not taking someone with you.”

“Maybe I think I deserve some quality time.”

“And who is going to pamper you? You can’t pamper yourself.”

“Says who? I can run a relaxing bath.”

“What about a massage? No quality time is complete without a massage.”

“I don’t need one.”

“You’re kidding, right? I’ve seen you rolling your shoulders these past weeks. You’re tense and stressed with making sure these people have a good Christmas despite the circumstances they’ve found themselves in. No one carries that burden more than you do. A massage is exactly what you need. And if it happens to be from someone you find attractive…”

“And who might that be?”

Missandei shrugs with an air of ingenuousness. “I don’t know. Daario?”

“Don’t play dumb, it doesn’t suit you. You know Daario and I have been over for nearly a year.”

“He doesn’t seem to accept that. More like it’s a minor bump in the road and it’ll eventually be fixed.”

“I’m sure all the women he’s sleeping with will help that to heal.”

“What about Jorah?” Missandei asks, too innocently to deceive anyone. “I’m sure he’d help you out if you asked him. He’s very…helpful.”

Dany suppresses the urge to roll her eyes. “I’m sure.”

“You know what they say about Bear Islanders,” Missandei persists with a devilish glint. “They…help with the strength of ten mainlanders.”

“Help,” Daenerys intones.

“Yes. Amongst other things.”

“Other things.”

“I’m sure you don’t need me to spell them out.”

“No, I don’t.”

Missandei leans her elbows against the table. “Look, you can play the ‘just friends’ card with me until you’re blue in the face. We both know the truth. You have the hots for Jorah and the gods know that he’s had them for you for years. You told me that you had feelings for him. Wine doesn’t lie.”

Daenerys ignores her words. As much as she is ready to embark on something new with Jorah, she isn’t ready for the pressure of everyone else knowing her business before they’ve even shared a kiss. “Try telling Tyrion that. His tales get taller the more he drinks.”

“Well, considering he can’t…”

They share a snicker, before Missandei sobers. “Seriously, what’s stopping you? If you like him, go for it. I’ve never known you not to before.”

“It’s different.”

“How so?”

How does she explain? “It’s Jorah. My friend. The one person who has been with me from the beginning.”

“The one person who has been in love with you since the beginning.”

“It’s not that simple.”

“Of course it is.”

“It’s not. You know how people are. They gossip and spread lies. Jorah isn’t interested in playing those kinds of games. He’ll be forced into them anyway. Tyrion and Daario will keep chipping away at him.”

“I don’t believe that you don’t have any intentions, or anything planned out. You’ve always gone after the things you want. It’s one of your best traits. It’s fine if you don’t want to tell me yet. I do understand. But don’t let anyone else hold you back. If you truly want Jorah, go for him. He wants you. He won’t reject you.”

Missandei is far too wise for her own good, Daenerys muses. “The cabin is just a fun idea, just something to remind him of Christmases past on Bear Island.”

“Ah!” Missandei crows triumphantly, “so you _are_ taking Jorah!”

“As a friend!” Dany is quick to impress upon her. “Nothing is going to happen. It’s not about seduction or anything else. Just doing something nice for a friend.”

“If you say so.” Missandei sounds disbelieving, but checks her watch and rises. “I should get going.”

“Yes, to see Torgo.” Daenerys waggles her eyebrows at her friend.

“Just to chat,” Missandei says defensively.

“I’m sure,” Dany drawls.

Missandei folds her arms across her chest. “Don’t look at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Torgo and I are just friends. There’s nothing wrong in that.”

“I didn’t say there was.”

But, Daenerys thinks, if Missandei thinks _she_ is in denial about her feelings for Jorah, Missandei herself is definitely in denial about her feelings for Torgo.

Missandei departs then, leaving Dany free to bring the Internet page back up. She continues scrolling through the various log cabins, searching for one that catches the eye.

This is a risky gambit. Possibly the riskiest one. An overnight stay in a log cabin isn’t just a night out and a farewell when the hour draws late. It’s a commitment of sorts.

A hint?

She’s not sure Jorah would take it even if he understood it. She knows him. She’s burned him before, and he will not be quick to feel it again.

She has to treat him gently, like a fair maid. If something was to happen, she certainly wouldn’t stop it. But nor will she force it. There are plenty of opportunities and she wants it to be the right moment. Not a moment fabricated, not a moment he will back out of once he realises what he’s doing. There was a time when he tried to kiss her. When she pushed him away. When they exchanged angry words. When the first cracks in their once-strong bond began to fracture through like fissures in delicate glass. An accident waiting to happen.

Things got a lot worse before they got a lot better. She doesn’t want a repeat of that now. So she has to tread carefully, be sure she is making the correct choices.

Her finger hovers over the mouse for a moment longer before she clicks.

No going back. Only moving forward.

Her opportunity to lay the cards on the table comes later in the morning when Jorah seeks her out to let her know that he’s going with a young family to inspect a new flat that they’ve found for them.

“Great!” she says. “That’s amazing. They deserve it.”

“Aye, they do. We just have to make sure that the Freys don’t try to fuck them over.”

Dany winces. The Freys aren’t known for their fairness. “If you do find any loopholes in the lease, make sure you contact Bryndon Tully. He’s good at sorting the Freys out.”

“I will do.”

“Come and let me know how you get on later.”

He nods and departs with the family in tow.

He finds her a couple of hours later where she’s taking stock of supplies with Barristan, collating a list of things she needs him to go out and buy. He waits patiently while they finish, and Daenerys sends Barristan on his way. The older man glances back at them as he leaves.

“He still disapproves of me,” Jorah comments as he moves into the room to help her replace the items she’s taken down.

“You don’t make it easy for him.”

“He doesn’t make it easy for me, either.”

Dany rolls her eyes. Secretly, she thinks that some of Barristan’s disapprobation has morphed recently. Ever since meeting him, she has looked upon him as a father figure of sorts, the one that she desired her whole life. Not the influence of her real father, with his heinous crimes, but one who was gentle, kind, determined to stand up for right, and who had made it a life’s mission to keep her safe. Aerys would never have done the same for her.

She thinks that Barristan sees her as a daughter, too. He never had children of his own. Which makes him all the more protective of her. He never really approved of her relationship with Daario but the two men get on well and she suspects that he knew it was never going to be more than a short-lived fling. With Jorah there’s always been something…extra. Barristan is a smart man. He’s sensed that. And now Dany is pretty sure his disapproval of Jorah has gone from disliking a work colleague to full father mode—a father disliking the man that his daughter has fallen for. No doubt no one will ever be good enough for hrr in his eyes. But notocimg thr frissoms of sexual tension between them wjenever they glsnce each other’s way has piwued his disapproval further. He eon’t challenge her about it—he has alwaus respected her choices even if he doesn’t agree—but Jorah is not protected from him in th4 same way.

She keeps her thoughts to herself. Best not to scare Jorah unnecessarily. “How did you get on?”

“Fine,” he says. “The family liked it. They have a place to raise their children in. However much we help them here, it’s not a place to live. No one wants to live in a hostel all their lives.”

“I know,” says Daenerys. That’s their ultimate goal: to get the people they take in back on their own two feet, making a life that they can be proud of.

“Varys and I couldn’t see any nasty hidden things in the contracts, but he gave Frey a subtle reminder just to make sure,” Jorah continues. “If all things go well they’ll be celebrating Christmas in their own home.”

“Great work, Jorah. I’m proud of you.”

He rubs his palm over his chin in that self-conscious way he has. “Tyrion deserves most of the credit. He ironed out all of the gritty details.”

“I’ll thank him later too. But your contribution helped us get it over the line. Anyway, can you shut the door a minute? I’ve something to discuss with you.”

He looks a little apprehensive at that but does as he’s told. There’s nowhere to sit in here and she’s been careful not to make it a formal setting.

“So, ice skating was a complete disaster,” she starts.

Jorah can’t help chuckling a little at that. “It was.”

“You could have been a complete arsehole to me about my arrogance, but you weren’t.”

“I think you’ve eaten enough humble pie, don’t you?”

“Yes,” she admits. “And it wasn’t very tasty.”

“Aye, that’s when it’s done right. No more grandiose statements about what you can and can’t do?”

“I’ve learnt my lesson. But I did want to thank you.”

“For what?”

“For taking care of me the way you did. You didn’t have to.”

“I was hardly going to leave you in pain, was I?”

“You didn’t make me go to the hospital.”

“I know what Pycelle and Qyburn are like. Sam’s someone I trust so I knew you would be safe with him.”

“And you treated me to dinner afterwards.”

“Like I said, you’d suffered enough humiliation without having to fork out on a lavish dinner for me.”

“Even so, that wasn’t our deal. So I wanted to do something nice for you in return.”

“What did you have in mind?”

This is it. Daenerys takes a deep breath and pulls the folded up reservation from her pocket. She hands it over to him, and Jorah frowns as he unfolds it to take in the words. He blinks, as if he can’t comprehend what he’s reading.

“A log cabin?” he croaks.

“Something fun for Christmas,” she’s quick to explain. “Log cabins are popular in the north, aren’t they?”

“They are,” he says guardedly. “We had several on Bear Island, to take refuge from the harsh weather.”

“I know, you’ve told me before. That’s what I was thinking of. You must have stayed in them before.”

“Once or twice, with my aunt or my cousins.”

“I thought we could recreate that childhood memory. I can’t promise the bitter cold since we’re only going to the Reach, but we can still build a log fire and wrap ourselves in furs.”

“It’s a nice thought Khaleesi, truly…but it’s a lot of trouble to go to for a thank you. And far more expensive than one dinner.”

“I meant it when I said I wanted this Christmas to be memorable for you. I want it to be one you remember forever. That’s far more important to me than any monetary aspect. Plus you’d be giving me a new experience too. That’s what we once promised each other, isn’t it? To embrace the journey and try new things if they came up. I want us to share those memories with each other.”

He looks a little full after her speech, the lump in his throat bobbing as he swallows. Finally, he nods.

“If that’s what you want,” he says. “It’s a lovely sentiment. Thank you for inviting me along.”

“So you’ll come and help me make these memories?”

“Aye, Khaleesi, I will.”

* * *

And so the plans are settled.

Jorah offers to drive since she has paid for the cabin. He calls by to pick her up. Drogon, Rhaegal, and Viserion are most putout that she is forsaking them for a man, but she gives each of them an extra cuddle and promises that she’ll bring them lots of treats to make up for it. Missandei is going to housesit for the weekend to take care of them. She is one of the few people that they trust.

“Are we going away for a week and I wasn’t aware?” he says as he lifts the case into the boot.

“I’ve got to make sure I’ve packed everything I need,” she comments, sliding into the passenger seat.

Jorah slams the boot down and joins her in the car.

“Looks like you’ve forgotten how lightly you used to travel in Essos,” he says.

“Only because I never had any of it in the first place. Now that I have, why wouldn’t I?”

He pulls out onto the street, joining the queue of traffic. It’s a slow crawl through the busy town centre until they reach the kingsroad. From there, the houses melt away until they’re winding their way through the greenery, fields and farms flashing by.

The Reach are located south of King’s Landing, fertile, beautiful lands. Their forests are thick and rich, and the cabin that Dany has rented is deep within its heart. It’s owned by Olenna Tyrell, and has been in the family for generations, stretching back to the her ancestor Aegon the Conqueror, but it has been well maintained and has many of its original features. Jorah carries the bags whilst Dany unlocks the place.

Inside is small and cosy. A huge log fire dominates most of the space in the front room, dressed with decedent fur rugs and a large futon. Chiselled beams support the ceiling. There’s a tiny kitchen, a smaller bathroom, and two bedrooms. Jorah takes their bags through while Dany busies herself with exploring all of the nooks and crannies.

“Shall we get some firewood?” she asks when he reappears. “We don’t want to be blundering around in the dark.”

“Good idea,” he agrees.

And so they head out together, bundled up against the cold. There’s a log store a short distance away, and Jorah wields the axe whilst Daenerys piles up the logs. It presents her with ample opportunity to watch him work. He’s stripped off his outer layers so his movement isn’t restricted, leaving him in just a thin t-shirt—a thin t-shirt that leaves very little to the imagination as he raises the axe above his head and brings it down with a satisfying thunk, cleaving the wood in two as if it’s a man’s skull. The muscles in his shoulder blades contract, the muscles in his neck cord with effort, the muscles in his biceps bulge as he wields the axe with the strength of ten mainlanders. He grunts with every blow, but he doesn’t seem to tire. That Bear Island stamina is impressive—and very, very sexy. His breath steams the air in front of him, and at last he drops the axe to the floor, pushing sweaty strands of hair away from his face with his equally damp forearm.

“That should do us,” he says. “Now let’s head back.”

He slings his layers over his shoulder and stands still as she piles his cradled arms high with wood. She gathers up the remaining herself and they pick their way back to the cabin.

“Be careful,” he advises her. “We don’t want you falling over and twisting your ankle again. I’m not a maester. I’d struggle to help.”

“Nothing to worry about,” she says, quickening her pace to keep up with his longer strides. “I’m not clumsy on solid ground.”

Not usually, anyway. But she isn’t always watching Jorah Mormont in a tight shirt like that. No one could blame her for stumbling.

At last they make it back to the cabin. There are wicker baskets inside where they can dump the wood, and Jorah arranges it in the hearth ready to set it kindling. Daenerys flops onto the futon, propping her chin in her palm to watch him.

“You’re good,” she comments.

“This was common on Bear Island. And surrounded by so many women, you’d better believe that I was made to work as hard as them and earn my place.”

“I think that’s sweet.”

“They’re good memories,” he admits. “Perhaps a little bittersweet now, but ones I will always hold dear.”

It saddens Daenerys to hear the wistful sadness in Jorah’s voice. The Mormont family was close, once, a sleuth of bears who would fiercely protect their own and keep their cubs safe. But those cubs grow, and strike out on their own, and lose their ways. Hopes of spring give way to harsh realities of winter.

Dragons aren’t nurturing by nature. They are hardy beasts, independent, prone to temper. Viserys would call himself a dragon for those traits alone; it never seemed to occur to him that they might just be cruel and abusive.

The dragons, if they ever existed beyond the magical tales, rule the skies no longer. Daenerys is a dragon, _the last dragon_ , but she refuses to be cast in the role of monster.

“Do you miss this?” she asks now. “These little traditions that can only be replicated properly in the north?”

One of the many things she loves about Jorah is his refusal to simply tell her what she wants to hear. He doesn’t simper and bow and scrape, trying to claw his way higher in her estimations, higher into her heart. If he disagrees with one of her actions, he tells her.

He mulls the question over now as he prods the fire, encouraging the first sparks to take to kindling, giving no indication of where the thoughts in his head are taking him. Perhaps they travel through those winter snows, ice-cold and clear and _home_. Back to Bear Island. Back to when the sleuth was strong. Back to when innocence was intact and bonds could never be severed.

“Sometimes,” he acknowledges at last, doing her the service of being truthful once more.

“You could always go back if you wanted,” she ventures. “You could always return home. If you would be happier there, I wouldn’t stop you. I would never keep anyone where they don’t want to be.”

“I know,” he acknowledges. “And that’s why I don’t leave. Bear Island was my home once, many moons ago. I would have cut off my right arm to return there. In my opinion, there was nowhere like it in the world. The opulence of Qarth or the mysteries of Braavos, or the decadence of Lys, nowhere in Essos could compare to that tiny little island bobbing in the Bay of Ice. And I know no one else would have understood that, except for you. That longing for a place…it consumed everything.”

And she does understand. It had bound them together for the rest of their lives, no matter what happened. Home.

How would anyone else ever have understood her crazed desire for a place she had never even seen, except in a photograph or two? How could they have understood when she had never breathed the salt air of the Iron Islands or tasted the plump, sweet fruits from the Reach, witnessed a hurricane in the Stormlands, the rich, looming rocks of the Westerlands, faced the unforgiving nature of the North, baked beneath the Dornish sun, partied in the wilds of the Crownlands. She did not know Westeros. Hearing tales was not knowing the place her ancestors had lived. She could not long for a place that had had no shaping on her person.

But Jorah had understood that ache, and had never dismissed her dreams just because she had never experienced it for herself.

_Home._

Home is so different these days. Not bricks and mortar. Not the cry of gulls over the frothing waves or the screams of children as they run into the Blackwater, kicking sand in their wake. It isn’t standing on Aegon’s Hill and looking down at King’s Landing below, or eating a bowl of brown in Flea Bottom.

It’s in the whiskey tones of a familiar voice, in the wrinkles etched deep by time and tribulation, in rare smiles that brighten the gloomiest of days and the rarer brush of calloused fingertips, burning deep and true.

Home is not a concrete place. Home is abstract, wrapped around the heart of one person.

Home is Jorah Mormont.

And, however much she might have pushed it away or ignored the unspoken truth before, there can be no denying the delicate red thread that twines their hearts on a chain of destiny.

She is his home too.

“But things are different now,” Jorah continues after a moment of silent contemplation. “I moved on, I healed. Bear Island will always hold a special place in my heart. But I’ve made peace with never going back. Essos, Westeros, it doesn’t matter where I end up settling.”

_As long as it’s with you. In whatever capacity that might be._

The words do not need to be spoken. She hears them, right in the centre of her heart, where Jorah Mormont has taken residency in its chamber, filling it a way it has never been filled before. One chamber was always exclusively her own, her refuge from the world. But now he is there too, fashioning it in his own colours.

“Are the reminders painful?” she asks. “I only want to give you good memories, but…”

“They’re not painful,” he is quick to reassure her. “Most of them are good. And no matter what has happened, I don’t want to forget them or pretend they didn’t happen. And attaching new memories to old remembrances is always a lovely thing. Especially when they’re memories with you.”

“I feel the same, Jorah,” she says. “Being able to share these moments with you is special. If there was one person I would want to experience these new things with, it’s you. It reminds me of the old times. You gave so much to me then. I want to be able to give back.”

“You gave back long ago,” he argues. “When I met you, I was a cynical mess down on his luck. I was close to pressing the self-destruct button. You showed me that there was more to life than I believed. You showed me that I didn’t have to be resentful of what I had or didn’t have. That I was being a childish fool. You had put up with so much but you never let it change who you were. You weren’t bitter or twisted. You channelled your bad experiences into something positive. You changed me.”

“And you changed me. You were the strength I’d never had, and the shoulder I had to cry on and lean into. I think we’ve been good for each other.”

He nods in agreement. Dany leans forward to tap his shoulder.

“We’ve been maudlin for long enough,” she says. “Teach me how to build a fire.”

There’s another grate in the kitchen.

He grins at her, and gestures for her to follow him, kneeling on the floorboard. She moves to sit cross-legged beside him and picks up a piece of log. Together they arrange them in the grate, building a pyre. He shows her how to get the kindling going, and how to blow it to encourage it to light the rest.

“Don’t set your hair on fire,” he says, and gathers it in a hand to hold away while she bends down to encourage the kindling to ignite. His calloused fingers brush the soft skin on the back of her neck and she shivers.

“Are you okay?” he asks at once.

“Just the cold,” she lies. “I’ll be glad to get the fire going.”

Thankfully it takes no time at all. Soon a fire dances in the grate, kicking up quivering shadows that dance to the tune of the pops and crackles. Satisfied that all is well, they head back to the sitting room. Daenerys settles back against the front of the futon and Jorah joins her, his feet stretching out to be warmed by the fire. They sit in quiet contemplation, each with their own thoughts. They can do that with each other. Unlike others, who always need to fill the silence and leave no room for awkwardness, they can be at peace with each other like this, exchanging whole conversations with just a look.

The point of the exercise is to bring Jorah’s past memories to life, and so that means sourcing their own food…to an extent. The idea of actually having to hunt something down sickens her to the pit of her stomach. So instead Jorah called at the supermarket, purchasing beef burger patties and salad before picking her up. They will roast them over the fire as men in the north would have done, thus re-enacting the preparation without any of the blood or gore or hassle of traipsing about in the cold and hoping that a poor rabbit might stray across their path.

Jorah takes care of the meat and she takes charge of the drinks, pouring the northern ale into plastic flutes. She sets the tiny wooden table and lights the little lanterns, throwing more light into the room. It’s almost a romantic atmosphere, with the shadows and the flickering light. She chops the salad and sorts out the rolls, then leans against the counter to watch Jorah work.

Finally, it’s done, and they carry plates to the table to enjoy their spoils, washing it down with the ale. It’s not Daenerys’ favourite thing, but she is determined to recreate a northern night.

The nights draw on like the shadowlands beyond Asshai in winter, and it’s dark by the time they’ve cleared everything away. Jorah produces a packet of marshmallows, and they lounge about roasting them.

“Tell me a story,” Dany pleads. “I don’t care what about. A memory of Bear Island, a child’s tale meant to frighten and entertain.”

And so he does, his deep voice resonating around the cabin. Tales of white walkers and Three Eyed Ravens. Tales of the Children of the Forest and the First Men, the stories of her own ancestors, Aegon the Conqueror, who once ruled with fire and blood before magic died entirely.

He’s a good narrator. She can well imagine him with children of his own, rapt and enthralled as they sit on his knee and gaze up at him with adoration. When he speaks in that tone…he could make anyone believe his words were true.

His stories peter out at last, and Daenerys sighs, shifting so she can lean her head against his bicep. Jorah jumps at the contact, but relaxes after a few moments, leaning his own head against the back of the futon.

“This is nice, isn’t it?” she mumbles. “It’s so quiet and peaceful here. You start to forget the whole hectic world out there. Sometimes…sometimes I wonder what it might be like to just stay somewhere like this and leave all the stress behind.”

“So do I,” he admits quietly. “But then I think of all we can achieve and all the lives we can help to change, and it strengthens me. And I know you wouldn’t want it any other way.”

“I wouldn’t,” she acknowledges. “But sometimes I wish I had more time.”

Hr chuckles. “So do we all.”

“Maybe that can be my New Year’s resolution,” she says. “Making more time for myself and the people I love most.”

He hums in agreement. He sounds rather absent now, as if he isn’t really taking in what she is saying. She smiles to herself. It’s been a long day for him. Driving all the way here, felling all those logs. He’s entitled to a bit of rest.

She’s rather sleepy herself. Sighing, she settles herself against him. She’ll just take a moment.

When she opens her eyes again it’s pitch black. The fire in the grate has been reduced to feeble embers. Beside her, Jorah still slumbers on, his head dropped onto his shoulder. He’ll have a sore neck in the morning.

Slowly, she sits up, rubbing at her eyes. Her skin is prickled with goosebumps. Careful not to disturb Jorah, she slides on to the floor to stoke the fire back to life. When it’s crackling again, surrounding the area with light once more, she crawls to her bag and retrieves a jumper. Yawning, she glances at the window, which has begun to freeze up with the cold.

Her eyes widen. This time she can’t help disturbing him.

“Jorah!” she hisses. “Jorah!”

He makes a muffled noise. She repeats his name again.

“Wassit?” he mumbles, scrambling up.

“Nothing to worry about,” she soothes. His sleep-addled brain is probably conjuring up all sorts of jeopardy. “It’s snowing, that’s all.”

“Snowing?”

“Yes. That’s perfect. I wanted it to snow.”

Jorah relaxes back into the sofa. “Why?”

“No reason.” She’ll tell him why in the morning, if there’s enough snow. “Go back to sleep.”

She pads back over to the sofa, sliding back onto it beside him. Jorah rubs a hand over his face.

“We should get to bed,” he mutters.

“No, let’s stay here,” she argues. “We’re warm by the fire.”

“Would be more comfortable.”

“I’m comfortable here. Aren’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Then what’s the problem?”

“It’s not very appropriate.”

“Who cares? I don’t. I’m comfortable with you. I trust you. And you trust me, right?”

“Of course I do.”

“Then there’s no reason for us not to. Go back to sleep, Jorah. You’re exhausted.”

He doesn’t argue with her further, settles himself against the sofa. She grabs the sheepskin blanket hanging from the back of the sofa and throws it over them both.

In minutes she’s toasty again, with one of his arms draped over her back and her cheek pressed to his chest. This is what she’s dreamt of for so long. The reality is so much better.

Outside, the snowstorm swirls on, a frenzied punishment sent by the gods. But inside Daenerys Targaryen and Jorah Mormont pay no heed to it, warm and protected by the cabin’s four walls and the fire that is burning bright in the hearth.

* * *

**Week Two, Day Five**

_In the meadow we can build a snowman…_

* * *

Daenerys awakens the next morning feeling more rested than she has in a long time.

She’s still tucked up in Jorah’s arms. Her cheek is flush to his pectoral, and when she peels herself away from him her silver hair sticks to her face. She glances at the window. The snow has stopped, but she can see a sheet of white, dusting the trees like delicate icing on a Christmas bauble. Perfect.

Carefully, she extricates herself from Jorah’s arms, shivering as the cold morning air bites her skin. She throws a few more logs into the fire and stokes it until it catches again, then pads over to the small kitchen. She’ll cook breakfast.

The sizzling of the bacon must rouse Jorah from his sleep. After a few moments of shifting, he pushes himself upright, blinking bleary eyes. His hair is tousled, sticking up in all directions.

“Morning,” she says cheerfully, waving a spatula at him.

“Morning,” he replies, his voice scratchy.

“I’ve got some coffee brewing. Want some?”

“Please.” He stands, stretching. She hears his joints pop. He winces. “Gods, that didn’t do me any good. I’m too old for falling asleep on the sofa. I need a mattress.”

“You’re not that old, she comments. “In fact, you’re in great shape.”

He does a double-take at that. She pretends not to notice, prodding at the bacon and making it hiss louder. A bit of a confidence booster is just what he needs. And it’s not a lie. He’s fit for his age, a face and body that would put younger men to shame. In fact, even Drogo doesn’t compare. Not that she’s seen the goods for herself yet, but his clothes and actions don’t lie. He could outrun any of them without breaking a sweat.

“Come and sit down,” she instructs.

He smooths back his hair. “Do you need any help with anything?”

“That’s okay, I’ve got it all in hand. You just relax.”

“I don’t like sitting here doing nothing,” he says.

“You do plenty for me. If there’s something I need I know I can come to you at any time of the day or night and you’ll be there. So don’t worry about taking five minutes out to relax. And look outside! The snow has settled!”

“I have vague recollections of you waking me last night to tell me just that.”

“Well, it was important.”

“I’d rather have the sleep, to be honest.”

“Now you _do_ sound like a grumpy old man.”

“That’s because I am one. Were you not listening earlier?”

“Shush. Be happy for me if you can’t be happy for yourself.”

“Aye, I’ve got good at that,” he says. A slightly awkward silence falls before, realising what he’s said, he swiftly changes the subject and moves on.

She finishes their breakfast in style. Even if it’s simple, she’s rather proud of herself. She’s never been an expert cook—doubtless Jorah knows more than she does, after fending for himself for so long—but the little things make great achievements. Like Jorah’s grateful smile as she puts the plate down in front of him, and the way he tucks in with great gusto.

They share pleasant chatter over breakfast. Dany had thought he might feel a little awkward after the way they had spent their night, but she is pleasantly surprised.

When they’re finished he offers to wash up whilst she has a shower first. The shower is a tiny thing squashed in the corner of the bathroom, barely big enough for her, never mind Jorah’s taller frame. The water is lukewarm at best but she enjoys sluicing away the previous day’s grime.

When she’s done she calls out to let Jorah know the bathroom is free before heading for one of the bedrooms to get changed.

Knowing that she’s going to be spending a great portion of the morning outside, she togs herself in hat, scarf, gloves, a thick jumper, and her coat. Suitably attired, she heads back to the living area to wait for Jorah.

He doesn’t take too long, and raises an eyebrow when he sees her.

“Going somewhere?” he asks.

She gestures dramatically behind her. “The great outdoors awaits us, ser!”

He groans. “Daenerys, are you insistent on getting me out in the snow at any opportunity possible? What happened to Christmas events that take place indoors?”

“Where’s the fun in that? We spend all day inside in the week. I want to breathe some fresh air and enjoy nature around me. I’ve always been told that dragons don’t plant trees, but I want to prove them wrong.”

“And what is it that you intend to do when we get outside?” he questions. “In case you haven’t noticed, there isn’t a lively town on the other side of the woods, and walking through the snow soon gets tiresome when it’s soaking into your trousers and numbing your legs.”

“I don’t intend on leaving the vicinity of the cabin,” she says cheerfully.

“Then what…?”

“I want to build a snowman!” she says.

“A snowman,” he echoes flatly.

She isn’t dissuaded by his less than enthusiastic attitude. “You must have made snowmen in the north. You have more snow than you know what to do with.”

“Aye, it’s true. Of course, I haven’t made a snowman since the age of twelve.”

She rolls her eyes. “There isn’t an age limit on building one, you know.”

“Perhaps not. But I think _my_ age stretches a little beyond what people would normally expect.”

“Don’t tell me you’re frightened of what the trees will think,” she giggles. “Jorah, there’s no one around to see us. And I’m not going to report back to Tyrion and the others, am I?” Well, she’ll probably fill Missandei in, but her best friend won’t say anything to anyone.

He sighs, but she knows he’s waning. He’ll do anything for her.

She needles, “Please, Jorah. This is another thing I was robbed of as a child. Essos never had snow. And even if it had, Viserys would never have let me play in it anyway. He wouldn’t want me to have fun.”

“So you’re guilt tripping me?” he jokes. “That’s very unfair. You know that I won’t be able to resist.”

“That’s the idea.”

“That’s horrendous. You’re manipulating me.”

“I’ve been manipulating men for years. It shouldn’t have taken you this long to catch on.” She’s not proud of it, but she’s manipulated him for her own gains sometimes, using his heart against him. She’s not proud of that, but she’s good at it.

Jorah takes the comment completely in jest, as she’d hoped he would. Shaking his head, he sighs, “Then I am yours to command, Khaleesi. If you want to build a snowman, I will risk my reputation to help you.”

“What reputation?” she snarks with a twinkle.

His mouth falls open. “I’ll have you know that I am very well respected by the Dothraki!”

“I think they think you’re weird too.”

“Did you bring me all the way out here just to continually insult me?”

“No, I brought you all this way for a nice weekend. And now to make a snowman.”

He holds his hands up. “I say we head outside now.”

And so they do.

The area surrounding the cabin is carpeted by snow, so pristine and bright when the sun reflects from the surface that she has to squint her eyes against it.

Jorah thrusts his hands into his pockets and surveys the area.

“Right,” he says, “we should start by packing snow together. We need to make it circular. That will form the base. Once we have that we’ll need to repeat it but with a smaller one so we can make the head.”

“Sounds easy enough.”

Jorah laughs. “There’s nothing difficult about it.”

They’ve always made a good team in everything they’ve done, and this is no exception. Jorah provides most of the heavy labour _and_ the logistics too, but she is his willing helper, gathering up glovefuls of snow and packing it into a hard ball. Within minutes her gloves are soaked and her hands are numb to the bone, but it doesn’t bother her. As stupid as this is, this is _special_. A moment reclaimed for childhood. And to share that with Jorah means the world.

Despite himself, Jorah is enjoying himself too. She knows it. He’s far too solemn as he issues instructions to her, showing her how to smooth the snow down and round it off. And he’s gathering as much snow as she is, as invested in this project they have started.

It takes some time, but at last they have a snowman’s body. Jorah wipes his forehead on the sleeve of his coat.

“We just have to repeat the process for the head and the hardest bit is out of the way.”

She giggles. “You mean the part that’s the most fun?”

“Perhaps to you. Not to me.”

“Don’t pretend you’re not enjoying yourself. J know you, Jorah Mormont, better than anyone else in the world. You’re having as much fun as I am.”

He shrugs, nonchalant. “If that’s what you want to believe.”

She’ll make him admit it before the day is done. For now she goes back to gathering the snow and packing it on top of the body, seeing the head take shape.

When that too is done, they begin to look around the vicinity for things that can be used for decoration. Jorah finds twigs buried in the snow beneath a tree that they use for the arms, then they dig around the cabin’s foundations searching for stones that can be used as eyes, a smile, buttons.

“I just need to pop back inside,” Dany says. “Won’t be a moment.”

She hurries in, grabs what she needs from her bag, and returns outside.

Jorah raises an eyebrow when he sees it. “You brought a carrot with you?”

“Of course I did. The carrot is the most iconic part of the snowman. He needs a proper nose.”

Jorah shakes his head. “You’re lucky it snowed, otherwise you would have carried a carrot around all weekend for nothing.”

“And how silly would we look now without it?” she retorts tartly as she wedges the carrot into the snowman’s smiling face. She steps back to inspect her handiwork. “There. He looks perfect now.”

“Almost,” Jorah disagrees. “Here.” He unwinds his scarf from around his neck and moves to wrap it around the snowman instead. “There. _Now_ he’s perfect.”

Dany has to concede that he has a good point. Well, almost. To finish his dapper look, she takes the hat from her head, shaking out her mass of silver hair. The cold assaults her ears immediately, but she ignores it in favour of placing the hat on the snowman’s head.

“There,” she says triumphantly. “Perfection has been achieved.”

Jorah concedes defeat to that. “Aye, now he does.” He turns away, hands on hips, to gauge how much sunlight is left to them.

This is her opportunity.

Stealthily, she bends down to pack snow together, forming a ball.

And launches it right at the back of Jorah’s head.

He yelps in surprise, spinning around.

She wastes no time in launching the second ball. It arcs through the air, hitting true, right in Jorah’s face. He reels back, spluttering, and Daenerys doubles over, clutching at her stomach as she laughs and laughs.

“Your face!” she gasps. “It’s a picture!”

He shakes his head, like a dog dispelling water from its coat.

“That was uncalled for!” he says.

“But so very satisfying,” she giggles.

“Really? How would you like a taste of your own medicine, eh?”

She realises what he intends to do and flings herself down to gather up more snow, but he is quicker than her; when she rises to throw the snowball, she finds he is already ready—and cannot dodge the snowball he hurls at her.

This time it’s she who reels backwards as the freezing snow explodes across her face, stinging her already numb cheeks. She squeals as those icy drops run down the back of her neck and the front of her throat, making goosebumps rise unpleasantly.

Jorah smirks at her, casual. “Not so pleasant, is it?”

“You…!” she threatens playfully. “You’ll pay for that!”

“No, I don’t think I will,” he says.

And thus the war begins, the war between the dragon and the bear. It is not one of graceful swordplay, of Braavosi water dancing, Dothraki bravery, Westerosi strength—at least not on her part. There is no finesse to what she does; all she can do is lob snow in a desperate attempt to slow Jorah’s own assault. She finds she is not very effective on the field of battle. With little experience in such matters, she is forced to rely on nerve alone. Her own shots often end up wildly off target, more likely to explode against the side of the cabin than Jorah himself.

In contrast, Jorah is a fierce warrior. More agile than his size would suggest, he ducks and weaves around her snowballs, his own striking true most of the time. Within minutes he’s beaten her back against the trees, and she is soaking wet and stiff from the cold. Each snowball that finds its mark almost winds her with its intensity, and when the final blow knocks her completely off her feet she holds up her hands, panting for breath.

“I yield!” she manages. “I yield.”

Thankfully, Jorah takes pity on her. “Declare me the king and I’ll pardon you for your crimes.”

“You are my king, Jorah Mormont of Beat Island,” she says. “I swear fealty to you for this day and all the days to come.”

Jorah tosses his last snowball up into the air, stepping neatly aside as it explodes in a puff when it hits the ground.

“Then I pardon you,” he says. “Arise, Daenerys Targaryen.”

He holds his hand out and she takes it, grateful for his help as he hoists her back to her feet. Her cheeks burn hot now, and she shivers.

“I think we should call it a day now,” says Jorah. “We’ll go back inside and warm up.”

“Good idea,” she agrees through chattering teeth. “I didn’t expect you to be such a good snowball fighter.”

He leans in closer to her, bracing his arm against the tree behind them.

“That’s the thing,” he says huskily. “We Bear Islanders do everything with the strength of ten mainlanders.”

A hot thrill rushes through her at that, blooming in her chest and spreading south. She’s acutely aware of her heart pulsing in her throat, and she licks her lips.

He leans in the tiniest margin.

Her lips part, her eyes half-lid.

Is he going to—?

That thought is cut cruelly short as he shakes the branch above her head.

A heavy pile of snow trembles and then falls with a heavy flump, covering her from head to foot.

She screams. It’s like being dunked in an ice bath.

Jorah roars with laughter, and before she can reach out and snatch at the front of his coat, he’s turned on his heel and pelted for the safety of the cabin.

“You arsehole!” she yells after him, but it’s an empty curse; it’s a privilege to see this more mischievous side. “Come back here!”

She sets off after him, but his head start and longer strides ensure he is back within the cabin’s walls before she has closed the gap.

Dany pauses to catch her breath then, heart still full, bends down to etch a silly confession into the snow: _D+J_. She finishes it by enclosing them in a heart and heads back inside.

The letters will be covered before Jorah ever sees them, lost to another flurry of snow.

The following morn, Daenerys swipes a sprig of mistletoe from the bushes that grow around the cabin, a physical token of their weekend.

When it’s time to leave this place they leave behind the snowman in his hat and scarf, a shared creation for the two of them, a hundred happy memories to go with him.

* * *

**Week Three, Day Six**

_Do you ride on down the hillside in a buggy you have made…_

* * *

After the fiasco of the ice skating debacle, Daenerys isn’t fool enough to try something so expert again. But she recognises that Jorah so far, despite himself, has enjoyed the outdoor activities. He’s a northman, after all. The great wild expanse of northern landscape has always been there, ripe for exploration. It’s in their blood as much as the First Men.

So she’s decided on a compromise. An outdoor activity which is a staple at Christmas but won’t show her up to be completely incompetent.

Sledding.

It’s another thing she has never done before. But she’s seen it, with the children laughing as they sled down Visenya’s Hill when the snows fall deep enough. It can’t be that hard to sit on a little wooden board and slide down the hillside.

It’s the perfect activity. Something light-hearted and fun which is a nice contrast to the weekend they’ve just spent together. Something to remind him of their close bond and the fun they can have when they’re away from external and internal pressures.

Dany leaves the clue for him tucked away in a file on a Dothraki family who are looking for a home in the Crownlands, somewhere rural where they might be able to make a decent living labouring on a farm. Jorah has worked hard on this case, together with Missandei teaching them the basics of the Common Tongue so they can get by. The children, a boy and a girl, are bright, inquisitive things. With a good education they can go far, and Daenerys is proud to be the one to help with that.

Her morning consists of meeting the new inhabitants who have turned up seeking help over the weekend. Often they are a ragged bunch, with no place in the world. She is Mhysa, infamous across the Narrow Sea, and they put their faith in her to help them. The idea of letting any of them down is intolerable.

Jorah finds her later in the morning when she has snuck to the break room to brew herself a coffee.

“Want one?” she asks, indicating the pot.

“Please. I’m going to see Mace Tyrell. I need something to keep me awake.”

“You’re horrible,” she scolds, leaning up to grab a mug for him.

“You’re more than welcome to take my place if you like him so much.”

“That’s okay. You’ve come this far.”

Jorah leans against the worktop as she adds milk to her drink. “Speaking of which, I found something interesting in the file.”

“Did you?”

“Yes. This.” He produces an intricately crafted albeit squashed paper sleigh from his pocket. “Any idea of how that got there?”

“None. What is it?”

“Well, I think it’s a clue…”

She manages to keep a straight face. “About what?”

“About a certain activity I have to look forward to.”

“Which is…?”

“Sledding,” he says, then groans as he evidently takes her smirk s confirmation. “Daenerys, you can’t be serious.”

“Deadly.”

“Have you not learned your lesson from the ice skating?”

“Of course. Which is why I’ve chosen a sport where we sit down. What could go wrong?”

“I can think of plenty,” he mutters.

“If you went ice skating as a boy you must have gone sledding.”

“Of course I did. Bear Island doesn’t have as many sledding slopes as other parts of the north because of how densely wooded it is, but there were some places I used to go with Dacey.”

“It’s another thing I never got to experience. You know Essos is too hot for snow, and even if there were places which emulated it we would never have been able to afford it. So what better way to experience it than with someone who is more of an expert?”

“I don’t know,” he sighs. “It’s more of a child’s pastime. People will think us mad if they see us.”

“Some people already think me mad. It would be more interesting than constantly being told it’s because my blood is tainted.” She lowers her lashes, employing the beleaguered damsel look she has perfected for bigoted men. Jorah is far from that category, but he is knight-like in his desire to defend the downtrodden. She can easily imagine him in a setting of old, guarding his queen to the death with a loyalty unrivalled by anyone else.

Sure enough, Jorah sighs again, rubbing his hand against the back of his neck, but he capitulates. “Fine, if that’s what you really want.”

“It is,” she beams. “Thank you, Jorah. You’re the best.”

“Just the most unhinged,” he says. “I must be to agree to this. Of course, this all depends on whether it snows. So perhaps the gods will smile on me.”

“It will snow,” she insists.

He chuckles. “If there’s one thing I’ve come to believe over the years, Daenerys Targaryen, it’s that you can bend anyone and anything to your will.”

* * *

There’s a saying in the history books, some with admiration, some with scathing contempt:

Targaryens answer to neither gods nor men.

Viserys had lived his entire life by that maxim, and the family motto that speaks of supremacy throughout history: fire and blood.

Dany has tried to distance herself from those violent connotations, but on particularly successful days when she is feeling rightly smug with what she has achieved, she is inclined to think history is right.

Saturday morning dawns bright and early and when she pulls back the curtains she is met with a blanket of white, exactly how she’d said it would be. The stranger has visited them in the night, leaving only the cold behind. Or perhaps it’s Jorah’s gods, venturing out of the frozen north. Or mayhaps even the Night King himself, spreading winter to whatever he touches. Either way, it plays to her advantage.

She grabs her phone from her bedside table and shoots a text off to Jorah.

_Have you seen the weather?_

_I have. Seven hells._

_Told you it would snow._ _😉_

_No need to gloat._

_I’m not. Meet me in ninety minutes._ _🏂❄_ _☃_

_You need to stop now._

Daenerys laughs, putting her phone back and heading off to get ready.

She togs herself up nice and warm in thick layers, with a woolly hat, scarf, and gloves for good measure. She leaves the heating dial on, knowing she’ll be grateful for that when she returns home dripping and shivering.

Jorah meets her at the bottom of Visenya’s Hill. Her heart does a funny little somersault at the sight of him. She’s never seen him dress so warmly before. She’s used to him in the thin cottons of Essos, and the buttoned shirts of Southern Westeros.

She can’t deny it: he’s hot.

A little frost settling in his beard. Thick dark furs which contrast with the ginger of his hair. Said hair dampened and slicked back by the eddies of snow that swirl and blow around them.

He’s got two boards with him, one slung easily over his shoulder as if it weighs nothing.

“I took the liberty of sorting these out for us,” he teases. “Despite this being your idea, I didn’t think you’d actually planned this far ahead.”

Dany blushes at that, caught out. That is a stupid oversight on her behalf. She should have given it thought. But of course Jorah knows her so well, better than anyone, and he has picked those pieces up for her.

The slope is already covered in kids and teens out having a good time in this rare weather. Shrieks and screams and laughter permeate the air, a perfect background song as they begin trudging up to the apex of Visenya’s Hill, doing their best to keep out of the paths of uncontrollable sleds. Jorah, gentleman that he always is with her, is dragging her sled as well as his own, and she follows in the deep tracks he is leaving.

At last they reach the summit.

It’s a breath-taking view. Aegon’s High Hill is the highest in King’s Landing, but Visenya’s Hill offers a sprawling view of the quaint little houses, all dusted in snow and looking like something from an artist’s imagination, with the iron grey sea frothing and churning. The wind slaps her cheeks, and she tucks an errant strand of her silver hair beneath her hat to prevent it from blinding her. Jorah’s face is ruddy beneath his beard.

“Here,” he says, breaking through her reverie by handing the sled across to her. “Now, do you know what you’re doing?”

She rolls her eyes at that. “There’s no skill in this. It’s a case of just going for it.”

“You’d be surprised,” Jorah says airily.

“You’re just teasing me because I was so bad at skating.” Dany takes the sled and positions herself at the brow of the hill. “But now bear witness to my super sexy descent. You’re going to be blown away, ser.”

“Aye, no doubt I will be,” he murmurs.

“Are you ready?”

“Almost.”

He looks a comical sight. Unlike herself, he is big and gangling, and looks far too big to fit on his sled comfortably. His knees are drawn almost to his chin.

“On three,” she instructs. “One…two…three…go!”

And together they push off.

It’s one of the most exhilarating things she has ever done. The wind whistles through her ears as she gathers speed, her eyes watering from the cold, her fingers knotted around the rope rein. Flecks of snow fly up to spatter against her hot cheeks, and she whoops in delight, transported back to her youth and to the things she should have experienced.

Then, without warning, her sled hits some long buried rock lurking beneath the snows. For a moment, things seem to move in slow motion. The sled crunches, catapults…

She flies. Flies like she’s on the back of a dragon.

But it’s an illusion. For there is only air beneath her, and air cannot sustain her.

It happens too quickly for her brain to comprehend.

One moment there is nothing.

Then there is Jorah.

Just in front of her.

A king on his throne. A knight on his noble steed. Regal. In control.

And she crashes into him.

The impact crushes the air from her lungs. Her body, though much smaller than his, has the advantage of momentum. And Jorah had been relaxed, unguarded.

He emits a loud cry of surprise as she crunches into him, sending him flying sideways. Flailing fingers reach out to re-establish a hold on the old rope tie, but it’s for naught. The rope evades him, and he topples sideways from his seat into the snow; tangled with him, she can only follow.

They roll and roll. Snow blinds her, the cold seeping into her skin. Numbing her. Her head clashes against his and she cries out, her ears ringing…

And, finally, they come to a messy stop.

For a long moment, Daenerys can’t move. Her limbs feel as if they’ve been yanked to the point of popping out of their joints; her left shoulder throbs angrily. Her head spins. There’s snow melting in her mouth, so cold that it makes her recoil. Gingerly, she leans to the side to spit it out.

Jorah groans.

It’s then that it registers where she is.

Pressed right into Jorah’s broad chest, her forehead against his pectorals, legs tangled, one of his arms awkwardly laid across her hips.

It would be comfortable if it wasn’t so mortifying.

Dany scrambles away from him, sending up a puff of snow as she falls to the ground beside him. The cold instantly begins seeping through her layers, fixing her in place.

“Jorah, I’m so sorry!” she gasps.

He hisses an expletive, flexing his fingers, testing that he hasn’t broken them. He’s got wet smears of snow across his face, and his hair has darkened to a honey brown with the moisture. She goes to him, fingers exploring the contours of his face, checking for any sign of injury. He winces as she touches a tender spot on his cheekbone. Perhaps a bruise. Nothing more sinister.

“What happened?” he groans, pushing himself up into a sitting position.

“I don’t know,” she frets. “I think the sled hit something.”

Jorah takes a moment more to gather himself before scrabbling to his feet. His clothes are soaking. He strokes his hair back from his face so that it lies against his skull, then lowers his hand to help her find her feet once more too. Her stiff limbs don’t want to cooperate but at last she makes it. Jorah keeps his hands on her shoulders.

“Are you hurt?” he asks gruffly.

Dany rolls her shoulder, wincing a little. “I think I’m fine. What about you?”

“Fine.” He waves a dismissive hand. “Where did the sleds go?”

They turn to scan their surroundings. The sleds have ended up in a pile together a few feet further down the hillside, carried by the force of their collision. Jorah trudges to collect them, yanking them behind him. Daenerys tries to ignore the laughter and jeering from the kids who stopped to watch the whole debacle.

“Well,” Jorah says finally, “so much for you being better at sledding than you are skating.”

She blinks at him. His lips twitch.

And then they’re laughing, laughing so hard that it hurts; Daenerys doubles up, clutching at her stomach, leaning against his strong frame for support. Tears blur her vision and she wipes them away with her wet glove.

“Gods, you’re a danger to us all,” says Jorah. “I’m never doing any sort of activity with you ever again. Forget everything else, you’ll be the one to kill me at this rate.”

“I don’t understand! How can anyone be bad at sledding?”

“The gods alone know. But you can’t be good at everything, Daenerys Targaryen. All things considered, it’s not a bad thing to be bad at. You’re incredible at everything else.”

She blushes at his words, letting her hand creep into his. He sucks in a breath. Takes a moment. Slowly enfolds her fingers in his. It’s a step on from their night of worship, and she longs to take it that one step further still, to lean up on her tiptoes and press her cold mouth against his. Feel the heat of his tongue. Taste the ice.

She’s on the verge of doing just that, damn the open surroundings where everyone can see them. But Jorah is not on the same page, and he pulls away, clearing his throat, likely embarrassed and irritated that he’s shown more of his heart.

“We should get going,” he mutters. “It’s not wise to linger in wet clothes. We should get warm and dry.”

Dany pouts. “I really want to stay longer.”

“Perhaps we can come back another day. But we don’t want to come down with colds and be forced to stay home. We both know how important this time of the year is for the people we help.”

Disappointing as it is, she knows he’s right.

“Okay,” she says.

Their descent is made in silence. They look like two bedraggled cats. When they reach the bottom, Jorah jerks his head in the direction of the Street of Sisters.

“Will you be okay getting home, or would you like me to walk you there?”

Much as she would like that, she knows it would be selfish when he is dragging the sleds. “No, it’s fine.”

“Will you text me when you get home so I know you’re safe?”

“I will.”

He nods. “Don’t forget. Make sure you get some dry clothes on.”

With that, he leaves. Daenerys stays rooted to the spot for a moment more, lamenting her poor luck, before turning in the direction of home.

She’s shivering by the time she arrives. The wind is a cruel foe, piercing her like a flayer’s knife. She kicks off her boots and strips on her way to the bathroom, leaving three confused cats in her wake. A hot shower is required. Dragons need to be warm.

Once she’s showered and dressed in woolly pyjamas, she crawls under her duvet and reaches for her phone.

There are three texts from Jorah.

_Just got home. Soaking._

_Daenerys, are you home yet? You should be by now, surely?_

_Khaleesi, just let me know you’re safe, okay?_

Never mind a warrior, he’s a worrier. She composes a text quickly and fires it off. If she leaves it any longer he’ll call the City Watch.

_Home safe. Had to have a shower._

His response is almost immediate.

_Daenerys Targaryen, you will give me a heart attack one of these days._

_Only if it’s caused by making hot love to me_ , she wants to respond, but refrains. That might well give him a heart attack.

_Sorry_ , she writes instead. _Please forgive me._ _😢_

_As if I could do anything else. Have you got dry clothes on now?_

She snaps a selfie and sends it. She receives one back within minutes.

Jorah isn’t one for selfies and photographs. But he’s very photogenic. Sighing to herself, Dany traces her eyes over the picture, sparing only a quick glance at the caption which suggests that he’s still cold. Those cheekbones look incredible, especially paired with the bashful smile. He’s in his bathroom. Is he going to have a shower too? His shoulders are bare, those strong collarbones protruding. Gods, he’s shirtless. If only he’d lowered his camera a little…

How had she ever been so blind? Why had it taken her so long to understand?

Licking her lips, she types, _I think the best remedy is to crawl into a warm bed._

_Do you?_

_Definitely. Scientists say that sharing body heat does wonders. Wish I had someone here right now._

There’s a long delay before he replies. Daenerys watches the three little dots that indicate that Jorah is composing a reply stop and start. She’s beginning to regret her boldness.

_You have your three cats. Those boys would do anything for you. I’m pretty sure keeping you warm would be easy._ _😻_

Jorah isn’t one for emojis, either. Seeing them there makes her smile. They’re his way of attempting to diffuse any tension. She will accept that.

They text back and forth for the whole afternoon. Though it isn’t what she had planned, it’s still something to be treasured, a beautiful day between two people who mean so much to one another.

They still have fun and laugh. And that means more than anything.

She falls asleep that night with her phone pressed to her chest, confident that across town, Jorah Mormont is doing exactly the same.

* * *

**Week Three, Day Seven**

_Later we’ll have some pumpkin pie…_

* * *

There’s little in the world that Daenerys loves more than food. As a child she was deprived, growing up small and skeletal, living off whatever scraps Viserys could get for them. Dogs ate better than the two Targaryen children did. Many a night Dany had hidden beneath her thin, ragged blanket, clutching at her stomach and crying silent tears. She dare not complain aloud. She would only wake the dragon.

Since Qarth, she has been able to stuff herself with as much food as she desires. The Dothraki horsemeat had never been to her taste, but Qarth had had riches beyond her wildest dreams. Jorah must have thought her a glutton, but he had never said a word, scraping together what coin he could to buy her the first decent meal she’d had in months. She’d been so happy she could have kissed him.

That was her biggest mistake. She should have.

She’s always been mindful to take care of the others too. So many of the people she loves the most have had the same poor starts to life. Grew up hungry, or abused, or alone. That’s why _Breaker of Chains_ is so important to her. She can help to change the lives of the people who seek her out. And she will.

Today is the weekly meeting with the senior amongst them. Tyrion Lannister sits at her right hand side, Jorah at her left. Missandei, Torgo, Varys, Barristan, Davos, and Daario make up the rest. They know what’s expected of them. They’ve been here before. But Daenerys still draws out her notepad and a pen, and scrawls _Christmas Treats_ at the top of it.

“Right,” she says expectantly, “who’s doing what?”

Daario groans. “Can’t we just throw a few gold dragons into the middle of the table and send someone out to buy some cake?” He jerks his thumb over his shoulder. “This poor lot is so hungry that they’ll eat whatever shit you give them. They’re not going to appreciate something homemade.”

“Maybe not, but _I’ll_ appreciate the effort,” she responds. “This year I want us to show a little more care. Making something from scratch feels so much more authentic.”

Tyrion sighs, resigned. He’s a clever man, probably the cleverest man in the Seven Kingdoms. He knows when not to argue with her. “I suppose I’ll make a figgy pudding. I can spare the silver stag to hide inside.”

“Excellent.” Daenerys makes a note.

Now that one has capitulated, the rest soon follow. Missandei next, then Torgo, both offering to make desserts from their homelands. Barristan comes next, claiming mince pies and whiskey cream for the adults. Davos offers up rice pudding.

“Every child in Flea Bottom was reared on that,” he says. “It will serve anyone well enough.”

Varys takes the decadent chocolate cheery tart, Daario the flamboyant trifle. That only leaves Jorah.

“What about you?” she prompts him gently.

He rubs his chin, trying not to be too self-conscious in front of his peers. “I can’t say that I’ve ever baked anything before, Khaleesi.”

“Neither have I,” says Daario. “That’s woman’s work. But if I’m giving it a go then you are too, old man.”

Daenerys ignores the Tyroshi’s jibe. “How about gingerbread? That’s easy to make.”

“Is it?” Jorah says doubtfully.

“Well, it’s easy for most people,” Daario sniggers.

“Have you ever tried it?” challenges Daenerys.

Daario ruffles his hair. “I’ve already said that I’ve never baked anything before. But I’ve seen the recipes. I think I could manage it drunk.”

“Then I’m expecting great things from your trifle.” Daenerys turns her attention away from him. “Honestly, Jorah, you’ll be fine.”

He shrugs, resigned. “I’ll trust your judgement.”

“That leaves me with a white forest tray bake,” she says. “I think we’ve got a good range of things there. There should be something for everyone. Davos, will you be able to speak to Hot Pie about getting the rest of the catering inventoried and prepared?”

“Aye, leave that with me,” says Davos. “I’ll go and see him when this is done.”

“Ask him to send a rough draft of the menu when he gets the chance. Missandei, will you be okay drawing up the posters?”

Her friend nods. “No problem.”

“And Tyrion, you can come with me later in the week to pick up some gifts for the kids.”

“Sure. I happen to be an expert at buying presents for children. My nephew Tommen and my niece Myrcella always love what I get them. Joffrey is a different matter, but he’s a vile piece of shit. He’d rather torture kittens.”

“Daario, can you sort the DJ?”

He makes a sweeping bow. “Of course, Your Grace. Have no fear. I’ll find the best DJ King’s Landing has to offer. I hear that Marillion might be free that evening.”

“Excellent. Well, unless anyone has any issues, I think we can conclude things here for today. I’ll have a catch up later in the week with Davos, Tyrion, and Daario to see how we’re getting on.”

The others nod, and the sound of chairs scraping along the floor echoes round the room as the occupants rise to go about their afternoons.

“Jorah,” Dany calls over the hubbub, “can you wait a second?”

He nods, ignoring the childish _ooh_ ing from Daario. Dany waits until the door has closed on them, then searches through her papers for what she needs.

“Here you go,” she says, holding it out to him.

Jorah frowns as he unfolds it. “What is it?”

“What does it look like?”

“A house. But I’m not sure I understand the significance.”

“Well, go away and think on it. You’ve worked everything out so far. Come and see me later and I’ll tell you myself if I have to.”

He tucks the paper in his pocket. “I’ll do my best to work it out before then.”

When she seeks him out later on in the afternoon, however, he’s no closer to working it out than he had been that morning.

“You don’t make these things easy for me,” he grumbles.

Daenerys laughs. “I thought it was obvious!”

“It might be to you—you were the one who made it!”

“Yes, but think back to the meeting.”

He pulls a face. “Is that supposed to make things clearer?”

“Come on! What was it that you’re going to make?”

“Gingerbread men,” he says, resigned. “Though I honestly don’t think I’ll have anything palatable to present.”

“What else can you make with gingerbread?”

He looks nonplussed. She throws her hands up.

“Gingerbread _houses_!” she exclaims. “Come on, you must have seen them. They’re in the display in the bakery on the Street of Flour.”

“I can’t say I have much cause to go down there. It’s a bit more affluent than I am.”

“Nonsense. You’re a very dapper man. You wouldn’t look out of place there.”

“I think you’re the only person to think that.”

“Not so. I’ve heard whispers, ser. There are some people here who think you’re very attractive indeed.”

“Now you’re just being kind.”

“I’m not.” She wants to add that _she_ is amongst that number, but he wouldn’t believe her now and she doesn’t want him to be angry thinking that she is mocking him. “Anyway, the clue is a drawing of a gingerbread house. I was thinking that I could help you bake since it’s not something you’re very confident with. I’m not the greatest, but I’m not bad. And it will save you stressing out.”

“Isn’t that cheating?”

“No, you’ll still be doing most of the work. I’ll just be helping you.”

“I could do with the guidance,” he concedes. “But I can’t promise that anything I make will taste how it should.”

“It will. I’ll see to that. So shall we say Thursday evening? I’ll come over to yours?”

“If you’d like. I’ll get us something in so we can eat afterwards. I’m afraid as a bachelor living alone I don’t often make any effort beyond pressing a few buttons on the microwave. Is there anything in particular you’d like?”

“No, I’m easy. Surprise me. And here’s a list of the ingredients you’re going to need. Make sure you don’t forget anything.”

He tucks the piece of paper into his top pocket. “I won’t. Is there anything else?”

“No, that’s it. Go and enjoy the rest of your evening. I’ll see you in the morning.”

He inclines his head and takes his leave.

* * *

Thursday evening arrives on the back of another small flurry of snow. Daenerys heads home to change and feed the cats before making the journey across town to Jorah’s apartment, keeping her silver hair tucked beneath her hood.

She buzzes the intercom when she arrives, and Jorah lets her up. She catches the lift to his third floor flat and knocks on the door.

He opens it a few seconds later.

“Come in,” he says, stepping aside to give her room to enter.

It’s lovely and toasty inside, and she sighs as she unzips her coat, shrugging it off and laying it over the back of his sofa. “It’s much warmer in here than it is outside.”

“I made sure it was just for you. I know how the cold gets into your bones. Would you like a drink?”

She accepts gratefully and follows him into the kitchen. There are bags piled up on the table. He points at them.

“The ingredients you asked for,” he says. “I think I got everything.”

“Excellent,” says Dany, moving across to unpack them while he gets the drink. Yes, everything they need is right there. “Let’s get started. Preheat the oven.”

They work together to sort the ingredients into piles of what they need first. When that’s done, Daenerys instructs him to begin weighing them out. It doesn’t take long.

“Now you need to put the butter in there and rub it together until it makes breadcrumbs,” she says.

Jorah gives her an apprehensive look but dunks his fingers into the bowl. She watches as he rubs the flour and the butter together between thumb and fingers. He has a very good technique. Soft. Gentle. She wonders what it might be like to have those same hands on her, rubbing away a long day’s aches.

“I’m done,” Jorah announces at last, shaking her from her daydream. She blinks, sitting up straight on her chair.

“That looks great,” she says quickly. “Now you need to stir in the sugar.”

That takes only a few minutes, and he looks to her expectantly.

“Now it’s time to beat the eggs and the syrup in,” she says. “When you’ve done that you can take the dough out and roll it a bit until it’s smooth.”

He nods, working with diligent precision. That’s the thing with Jorah. He never gives anything less than his best, even if it’s something he might not be confident with. When the ingredients are bound together, he scoops the dough out and lays it on the work surface.

“Use the heel of your hand,” she encourages him. “You don’t need to work it too much, just until it feels soft.”

Jorah does as he’s told, sinking his hand into the dough, perhaps a bit too far. It sinks completely, and he withdraws, looking frustrated.

“I’m messing it up,” he says.

“No, you’re not. You just need to refine your technique a little. Here, let me show you.” She gestures for him to pass the dough over to her side of the workspace and works it gently for him. “See? That’s all you need to do. Just do it a little more softly.”

She hands it back over, and he tries to replicate her movements. He’s not quite as good as she is, but before too long the dough is as it’s meant to be.

“That’s it,” she says encouragingly. “Now wrap it in Clingfilm and let it chill in the fridge for fifteen minutes.”

When this is accomplished she reaches across for another glass of wine, leaning forward in her seat as she allows her eyes to wander around the small space. She’s never been here before, but even if she had no idea that it was Jorah’s home, she’d still guess it. It’s just _him_. Minimalistic. No-nonsense. No brocade or finery. A painting of Bear Island hanging over the fireplace is the only real decoration the place has. A place to rest his head at night, that’s what Jorah would say of his flat. And that’s exactly what it looks like. It saddens her, a little. Saddens her that this is the life he has chosen for himself, that she has deprived him of a life where he might have been happy. Not that he’d say that he isn’t happy now. And not that she can deny that she isn’t glad that he has taken this path. But even so, the facts remain that he has sacrificed a lot for her, and she hasn’t appreciated that enough.

The pastry doesn’t take long, and it’s out of the fridge.

“Now you need to roll it out,” says Daenerys. “Not too thin, otherwise it’ll tear, not too thick otherwise it won’t cook properly.”

“No pressure there, then,” says Jorah.

“I’m right here. I’ll let you know if it’s not right. Sprinkle some flour onto the worktop so the dough doesn’t stick there.”

He grabs hold of the rolling pin and does as he’s told. When the dough is sitting in the middle of the light dusting, he takes the pin and gets to work. After a few rotations, however, he stands back.

“I can’t do it,” he grumbles. “It’s not rolling out properly.”

It’s a bit lopsided, but it’s not a bad attempt.

“Here, let me show you,” says Dany, hopping from her seat. She rounds the counter to his side, nudging him in the ribs to make him lift his arm. Surprised, he does so, and she ducks beneath him, her body right up against his. She feels him go rigid, his hands gripping the rolling pin tighter, but she pretends not to notice. She puts her hands over his gently, encouraging him to slide the pin again. “It’s more like this. Don’t forget to move the dough around so you’re rolling it out equally. If you do that then it’ll come right in no time.”

“R-Right,” Jorah says. His voice catches a little, no doubt intoxicated by her proximity. She doesn’t blame him if he is. The scent of his aftershave is in her nostrils, and the warm firmness of his chest against her back makes her heart do a little skip. If she wanted, she could have a little fun with him, but she’s not so cruel as to torture. Nurturing him is more rewarding.

Together, they roll the pastry out until it’s at the perfect thinness. Daenerys ensures she does it carefully, so that the dough is without imperfection, but there is a selfish motivation there too; feeling his big, rough hands beneath her own, with all that strength and power, is an exciting feeling.

“There,” she says. “All done. Now you just need to cut the shapes out and we can pop them in the oven to bake. Then we can make a start on the parts for the gingerbread house.”

“Joy,” he sighs.

It’s a fun evening. The kitchen gets progressively warmer, but the scent more than makes up for it. Cinnamon and ginger and all other warm spices. It’s homely.

One day in the future, their kitchen will be filled with this exact scent at Christmas, and it will bring her back to this moment, a beautiful tribute to how far they’ve come.

For now they work in harmony, creating the edible scene together.

Eventually, all of the pieces are baked and cooled, and they can begin construction. Daenerys helps him to make caramel, intending on using it as the glue to stick it all together. He holds them up while she slathers the edges, then presses the other against it. They stand like statues for several minutes apiece, laughing at the absurdity of it all.

Eventually, the house is built. It’s slightly wonky, but overall it’s a decent effort.

“And if it was perfect people might suspect you didn’t do it on your own,” she says with a wink. “So I’ve done you a favour.”

“People will still think this is better than I could have done,” he days, inspecting her handiwork. “And they’d be right.”

“Hey, you _have_ done most of the work. Make a start on the decorating now. I’ll do some of the gingerbread people for you.”

He pushes the baking tray across to her and takes up the white icing to assimilate snow on the rooftop.

The decorating is much more fun than the rest of it. Daenerys designs gingerbread versions of all of their colleagues. Barristan with his white hair and beard, Tyrion with the golden lion of Lannister, Missandei and Torgo with the warm colours of Essos.

She takes extra care with the biscuit versions of herself and Jorah. She decorates Jorah in his famous yellow shirt and gives herself a white dress for ease. When Jorah is done decorating the house, she situates them all outside in various places in the garden, making sure their biscuit counterparts stand together.

“Look how cute we are,” she comments. “A very delectable couple.”

He evidently doesn’t know how to take that inference, so chooses to ignore it instead. “What do you think? Do you think it’ll be met with approval?”

“I think so. What’s not to love? It’s tasty and cute. It’s the perfect combination.”

“I’d reserve judgement until you _have_ tasted it.”

There’s one gingerbread man left; she snaps him in half and hands one piece across to Jorah. “Why don’t we find out?”

“And have to start again when it’s absolutely rancid?”

“Ye of little faith.”

He raises it to his mouth. “On your head be it.”

They take a bite in unison. Warm ginger floods Daenerys’ mouth. They’ve done a very good job between them, even if she does say so herself.

She chews and swallows, then grins at Jorah.

“Well?” she prompts. “Happy?”

“Surprisingly so,” he says. “Thank you, Daenerys. I couldn’t have done this by myself.”

“You’re welcome. Always happy to help you. Now put it somewhere safe for tomorrow!”

Tomorrow dawns, and there’s excitement in the air for the evening when everyone can eat and drink and forget about their problems for a while.

Daario got one of his women conquests to make the trifle for him. His is the most professional out of all of them. Missandei’s is delicate and fresh, a perfect reflection. But Jorah’s gets the most attention for his creativity.

“Look!” Tyrion says. “I’m as tall as all of you here. How depressing. A novelty biscuit is as close as I’ll ever get.”

The people they help love it too; the children openly stare and point and look longingly at the little gingerbread house, evidently desiring nothing more than to break off bits of it.

Daenerys does her own bit of stealing. When no one is looking, she snatches up the gingerbread Daenerys and Jorah and sneaks them over to Jorah.

As everyone eats and parties, they sit together on the fire escape and eat the gingerbread together under the crystallised stars.

* * *

**Week Three, Day Eight**

_All them gifts need gift wrap…_

* * *

As the final week approaches, Daenerys approaches Jorah at the end of the miniature party, when everyone else is busy cleaning up.

“Your next clue, ser,” she says, not bothering to dress it up. “I thought we’d see each other tomorrow if you’re not busy.”

“I’m not. But I’ve got things to do on Sunday. I don’t want to be too exhausted.”

“I suppose we’ll have to wait and see what happens,” she winks. “Anyway, here it is. You should have no problem with this.”

Rather than the traditional words she has been using to weave a picture, or some cryptic creation she’s gone with a direct approach this time. She hands over the little square and waits for Jorah’s verdict. Lines crease his brows, but they soon smooth away when he realises what he’s holding.

“Wrapping paper,” he says.

“I was hoping you would come and help me wrap some presents,” she beams. “I don’t have many, but I thought it would be fun. You’ve only got the one to wrap, after all. It hardly gives you the experience, does it?”

“It gives me all the experience I need,” he jokes. “I’m not exactly the type of person who enjoys that sort of thing.”

“Yes, I’m aware of that,” she teases. “Your idea of a good job is wrapping with brown paper and string.”

“It gets the job done. Why throw needless money at bows and silly paper?”

“You’re a true northerner, aren’t you? So sullen. The cold climate freezes away your ability to do things for the fun of it,” she teases.

“We’re practical. Unlike you southerners.”

They stare at each other challengingly for a moment before bursting into laughter. Daenerys shakes her head. “So I take it you won’t want to come round to mine to help me? I was thinking of wine and a takeaway. I’ll even make sure I’ve got some decent quality ale in for you. How does that sound?”

“If you insist, I suppose I’ll turn up.”

She grins at his feigned disinterest. “Great. Six o’clock. Don’t be late.”

“I wouldn’t dare, Khaleesi.”

She leaves him with a shake of her head, but the thought of actually having him round to her house carries her through the following day. She pops out to the local wine store to pick up a few bottles, along with a few bottles of the north’s finest. Or so the label says. She has her doubts, but she hopes that it’s at least drinkable.

Once home, she stores the drinks in the fridge and sets about having another shower. She doesn’t think anything will happen, but she doesn’t want to be caught out. Drogon, Viserion, and Rhaegal follow her round, heads cocked to the side, evidently disconcerted by her change in routine. After she’s finished, she gives each of them a fuss before feeding them, making sure to keep Drogon away from his brothers because he’s prone to stealing their food once he’s finished with his own.

There’s a rap on the door at six. The cats look up at once, guarded, but only Drogon dares stalk with her to the door. She opens it to find Jorah standing on the threshold, looking very handsome in a pair of jeans, a checked shirt, and a leather jacket. Effortlessly sexy.

“Hi,” he says.

“Hi,” she responds, slightly breathlessly. “Come in.”

She holds the door open and he ambles in. She catches a scent of his aftershave, and has to resist the urge to close her eyes against it. Is this what it’s like when they talk about animal magnetism and the power of pheromones in the wild?

Jorah shucks off his jacket and lays it across the back of her sofa, his eyes leisurely taking in his surroundings.

“It looks very nice,” he comments, gesturing to her decorations.

“I bet you haven’t got anything up, have you?”

“I haven’t got time for any of that.”

“Everyone’s got time if they put the effort in.”

“We can’t all be as wonderful as you.”

The words linger between them for a moment until Jorah shakes his head, turning away from her. Sometimes these things slip out without him meaning them to; he tries to censor himself around her as much as he can, thinking that that’s what she wants. At one time it was. Now she wants nothing more than for him to carry on.

She knows he won’t. And she doesn’t want him to be ashamed.

“What shall we order in?” she says.

“I don’t mind. Whatever you want.”

“How about Summer Isle curry? I’m craving a taste of sunshine in all of this cold.”

“Sounds good.”

“Great. I’ll do the ordering, why don’t you pour the drinks? And we can get started on the wrapping while we wait.”

He mock-bows, moving off towards the kitchen. She hears him greeting Rhaegal and Viserion as she picks up the phone. Drogon flicks his tail a few times before stalking after him.

The man on the other end of the phone advises her that the meal will be with them as soon as possible, and she hangs up with thanks.

She finds Jorah standing in the kitchen. Her heart swells at the sight of him.

He’s got Viserion in his arms. Her cat looks most content there, his tail swishing lazily, his little front paws curled over Jorah’s forearm. Rhaegal perches on his shoulder, looking like an expensive fur scarf.

And Drogon is sitting on the counter, close enough to be stroked. It’s a extraordinary sight. Drogon is notorious for being aloof. The only person he has ever snuggled and turned into a baby around is Daenerys herself. Anyone else would face his wrath.

But here he is with Jorah, as docile as a kitten.

“You look comfortable,” she comments, not wanting to make a big deal out of it.

“I don’t know about me, but Viserion and Rhaegal certainly are.”

“You do realise that you’re going to be stuck with them for the rest of the evening now, don’t you? They’re little snugglebugs.”

“They’re going to keep me warm, that’s for sure,” says Jorah.

“Do you think you can make your way over to the table? You’re not here to babysit the cats, after all.”

He pushes off from the counter, picking his way carefully over to the table. Rhaegal gives a mew of protest as Jorah lowers himself to the chair. He grits his teeth.

“He’s digging his claws in now.”

“He will. Rhaegal’s the worst for that. Drogon’s the one you’ve got to watch out for, though. He bites.”

“Yes, I remember him nipping me in the past. It wasn’t a pleasant experience.”

Dany rolls her eyes. “He was only aa kitten then. It can’t have hurt that much.”

“You’d be surprised.”

Jorah gets himself settled at the table without disturbing the cats too much. Viserion yawns and curls himself up into a ball, beginning a low, rumbling purr of contentment. Never one to want to miss out, Rhaegal slides himself down the front of Jorah’s chest in an attempt to join his brother on his lap. Jorah huffs a laugh, helping to adjust him, giving him a scritch behind the ears that makes him chirp.

“I don’t think I’ll be moving any time soon,” he says.

“Looks like you’ll be staying here for the night. I can get you a blanket and a pillow for your head.”

“Most kind. Thank you.”

“But before that we need to do some wrapping.” Daenerys produces the box with a flourish, setting it down on the table. “Here’s everything we’ll ever need. Sellotape, scissors, paper, bows, ribbons, tags…”

“What about things to wrap?” he quips. “Or are you planning on wrapping random items?”

“Smartarse,” she grumbles. “Of course I have presents. Here.” She dumps a second box down with a bang, smirking at his wince.

“That sounds heavy…” he says.

“It is. We’ve got plenty of work to do. So we’d better get a move on.”

Jorah rolls his eyes but accepts the present she hands to him, a smart bottle of aftershave.

“I thought I’d start you off with something easy,” she teases. “Even you can’t go wrong with a square shape.”

“Who am I wrapping this for?”

“It’s Barristan’s. He always wears this scent, have you noticed?”

“I can’t say that I’ve ever gone around smelling men’s aftershave, Khaleesi.”

“Well, it is. It’s a very dapper smell, I think.”

Jorah snorts. “Dapper?”

“Don’t laugh. Barristan is lovely, a real gentleman. I’m quite surprised women aren’t flocking to him, actually. Now stop being snooty and get some paper cut. Here, I’ve got a pair of scissors for you.”

Jorah takes them and begins to roll out the wrapping paper, ducking his head this way and that as he attempts to gauge how much he needs. It’s rather adorable, in a rather pathetic way.

The first piece he cuts is too small, and the paper doesn’t meet in the middle as he pulls it together. The second is the opposite, with reams of paper spare. Dany can’t help but laugh.

“What in seven hells are you doing?” she says.

He pouts at that. He’s never much liked not being able to do something. In all the years she has known him, he strives for perfection in everything he does. This…this is rather showing him up.

But it makes him all the more endearing, too.

“Cut some of that down,” she tells him. “We might be able to use it for something smaller.”

He gives her an adorably quizzical look borne from being a typical man. “This? Really?”

“We don’t waste things where we don’t have to,” she retorts tartly. “Trust me, if we can make use of it, we will. You’ve a lot to learn, ser.”

“So I’m beginning to learn,” he mutters, picking up the scissors once more with a dubious shake of his head. Daenerys supervises him out of the corner of her eye as she pretends to be absorbed in picking out bows and ribbon that will complement the paper she has chosen to wrap Missandei’s scarf in—dark blue with cute cartoon Rudolphs.

At last, he finishes his first present. It’s far from perfect, lop-sided and tied with a limp bow, stuck down with a hundred pieces of tape to keep it all together, but it could be worse.

Just slightly.

Daenerys can’t help but laugh as he places it on the completed pile with a faintly disgruntled frown. There’s no need to tell him that it’s not the best thing she’s ever seen, he knows that without her confirmation. But the fact that he’s here indulging her anyway means more to her than he could possibly know. She slides her own pristine parcel next to his.

“All right, you don’t need to show me up,” he grumbles, but there’s no displeasure in it.

“We’ll work around it. I’ll just have to tell Barristan that I was drunk when I wrapped it…”

A knock on the door interrupts them. Dany perks up.

“That’s our food,” she says. “I’ll be right back.”

She plates it out for them and brings it over, along with a bottle and two glasses. As the scent of the food wafts over, Rhaegal and Viserion poke their heads up from their spot on Jorah’s lap. Even Drogon is roused, lifting his head up from where he has made his nest on top of the cupboard.

“Smells good,” Jorah comments as she lays the plate down in front of him.

“It does. I’m sorry I haven’t made something for you myself.”

“Don’t worry about it. You’ve got enough on your plate without having to think about cooking for me. This is more than adequate, I promise. Besides, I remember the last time you cooked us something in Essos…”

She throws a fortune cookie at him.

The rest of the meal passes pleasantly, with good conversation and a relaxed ebb and flow that makes it easier to settle back in her chair and simply enjoy. Viserion and Rhaegal grow bored, and slink off into the sitting room. Drogon continues to monitor them from up high.

After they’ve finished eating, Jorah helps her to clear the plates away before they return to the table to finish their wrapping.

Daenerys pulls out an awkwardly shaped package.

“Why don’t you help me wrap this one?” she asks.

He eyes it dubiously. “Are you sure you trust me with it?”

“I don’t mean for you to wrap it. Just to assist me. You can hold the paper together while I get the tape.”

“Sounds easy enough,” he agrees.

She has him hold it in place as she measures out the paper she’ll need, slicing through with her scissors when she is satisfied.

“Hold the two ends together like this while I get some tape,” she commands, and he does so with his ever-present patience. She knows she can be a bit bossy sometimes. It’s the leader in her. But he never complains about it, following her commands without question if not always without hesitation.

She gets the tape and sticks it down, freeing him up from his duty.

“Now I’m going to fold the edges up,” she says. “This time you can cut the tape and stick it where I tell you.”

And so he does, following her directive to a tee. When they’ve done, Dany stands the present in front of them so they can both admire their handiwork.

“Not bad,” she announces, pleased. “I’ve just got to write a tag. You can tie the ribbon.”

“Can I not write the tag?”

“What, you want Torgo and Missandei to think that you’re buying presents for her?”

He huffs at her point. “Just don’t blame me when this doesn’t turn out any better than a five year old’s attempt.”

Daenerys writes the tag then sits back to watch him struggle. He doesn’t seem to know how best to wrap it around the bulky present without it sliding off, snake-like, at one end or the other. At last she takes pity on him, exhaling as she sits forward.

“Give it here,” she sighs. He hands it over without arguing. When she’s got the ribbon where she wants it to be, she instructs, “Put your finger here while I tie it.”

He does. She pulls the two ends up, crosses them over, then pulls them tight until they form a knot just above Jorah’s finger.

“Ease it out now so I can do the second knot,” she tells him, and waits while he wriggles his finger loose.

His finger grazes her thumb.

Something sparks, a bolt of electricity from the gods. The frisson that grows stronger with every day that passes, with each interaction they share. Jorah jerks back at the sensation, emitting a nervous chuckle.

“Sorry,” he says. “Bloody static.”

It’s more than static, she knows it. The physical sign that they have spent too long dancing around each other. The invitation for more.

But she knows that he isn’t ready tonight; to push onwards would be folly. His gaze has dropped to the table top, avoiding all eye contact the way he does when there’s something he can’t bear to face. There are still several activities left to complete. Any one of them could present the right opportunity to step from the threshold of friendship into the new beginnings of romance.

She has to give him time. He’s given her years of it. She doesn’t want to give him _that_ long in return—dragons lack patience—but she can grant him some. Enough for the possibility of _more_ to take root deep inside his heart, growing strong like a Tyrell rose.

For now, she pretends not to notice, and ties the final bow with a flourish.

“I think we’re all done here,” she announces. “Was it very painful?”

“I was expecting worse,” he agrees.

“How about we go and watch a film? To give you at least one truly enjoyable part of the evening?”

“No time spent with you is less than enjoyable, Khaleesi.”

“Now I know you’re just being chivalrous. Well, you get the popcorn while I put these away and we’ll see what’s on.”

Ten minutes later, they’re sitting on the sofa together, close enough that they’re almost touching, and Daenerys hopes that one day very soon they’ll have a lifetime of moments like this stretching on before them.

* * *

**Week Four, Day Nine**

_The moon is right, the spirit’s up, we’re here tonight and that’s enough…_

* * *

Daenerys can’t wait to hand the clue over to Jorah this time. She’s got a feeling that this one is going to be very special. Perhaps the one that will change it all.

She watches out for him arriving at work and calls him over when he does. He smiles at her as he makes his way over. Is he thinking about Saturday night? She hopes so. She can’t get it out of her head either. Mundane as it might have been, there had been something so magical about it, of sitting so close to him that she could smell his aftershave and feel the warmth of his body, a constant reminder of just how much she wanted him, those big hands being guided by her words, the electric zap that had jumped between them when their finger had touched…

“Morning,” he says, a tad breathlessly.

“Morning,” she returns on a grin, jerking her head to invite him into her office. “How are you this morning?”

“Well,” he says carefully. He’ll say no more than that.

Has he slept? Or has he spent the whole weekend awake, replaying the quiet intimacy of their night, lingering on the brush of their skin, on that split-second of understanding that seemed to twist between them like smoke unfurling from a dragon’s nostrils, smoky with the realisation that something had sparked there?

“I’ve got the next clue for you,” she informs him.

Jorah raises his eyebrow. “So soon?”

“We haven’t got that much time left, you know.” And she doesn’t want to wait too long to see him again, to be in his company again. Now it’s like a drug inside her, consuming her heart and leaving her hooked.

And it strikes her that this is what real love is like. That, for the first time in her whole life, she _knows_ what it is. Not that strange affiliation she had had with Drogo, where she’d decided it was easier to submit to him than fight him, snared with chains that she wasn’t even aware of having as she moulded to what he wanted her to be. She’d latched herself on to the first feeling of _something_ and convinced herself that it must be love, for what else could it have been?

If only she’d understood then.

But it’s perhaps only right that it’s now. She was too young then. She hadn’t had the experiences she needed, the experiences that would lead her to the revelation that it was Jorah Mormont and Jorah Mormont alone that she needed now and always.

“What’s the clue?” Jorah asks her gently, bringing her back to herself. He checks his watch. “I don’t want to sound rude, but I’m running a bit late. Barristan will have my head. I don’t think he’ll approve of me using the excuse that I was speaking with you.”

Dany tuts. “Honestly, you men.” Barristan and Jorah have a longstanding grudging respect for each other, but neither one of them has ever forgotten the slight rivalry of the early days when Barristan was the next person to join their duo. They had been two proud peacocks strutting, vying for attention; Jorah had claimed himself worthier because he had been by her side right from that first day, had offered her counsel, had shouldered all of her struggles right there beside her. Barristan had boasted experience like no one else, decades of it, and he had known her late father. He had been unable to protect Aerys and her brother Rhaegar, and so he had vowed that he would do whatever it took to protect her. Over time, she had begun to view him like a father figure, the father figure she had never had. Unlike the stories she had heard about her real father, Barristan was not mad or cruel; he took the time to teach her things she did not know and viewed her with the familial affection she had never got from Viserys.

Both men would always mean a lot to her, in very different ways now.

She fishes the next clue from her pocket and places it in the palm of Jorah’s hand.

He unfolds it immediately and reads aloud, “‘Ice, ice baby’.” His brows furrow. “What in the name of the gods am I supposed to get from that?”

“You’ve got until tomorrow night to work it out,” she says cheerfully.

“I don’t think I’ll work it out if you have me the rest of my life. It’s a reference to the song, isn’t it?”

“It might be.”

“So how am I supposed to reach a logical conclusion from that?”

“I have faith in you, my bear,” she says, then lowers her voice an octave. “And if you’re really struggling, I’ll put you out of your misery on tomorrow after work.”

“Then I’ll wait for that moment with bated breath because I’m pretty sure that I’ll draw a complete blank.”

“At least try to have a guess for me. If nothing else it’ll give me something to laugh at.”

“I think you laugh at me enough, Khaleesi.”

She feigns indignation. “I do not!”

“Really? Then why do you insist on me working with Tyrion so often?”

He has her there; she does tend to pair the duo up whenever she can. But that isn’t her fault—the two of them together are comedy gold, the best double act of Westeros.

Except perhaps for Tyrion and Varys. Or Tyrion and Bronn. Basically Tyrion with anyone. He’s just got the gift of the gab.

“Be on your way, ser,” she says now. “Mull it over, see if you can come up with the answer. And all will be revealed on tomorrow evening if not.”

“Then roll on tomorrow,” he says.

* * *

The next day pass in a blur, and before anyone knows it it’s the afternoon. With the amount of work they have to get through and the people they have to aid, there are never enough hours in the day to complete all that needs to be done, which often leads to Daenerys staying well past the time she’s supposed to leave.

Today is the exception.

Missandei raises her eyebrow as Dany pulls on her coat at four on the dot.

“This is the first time you’ve left this early in ages,” she comments.

“I know. I’ve got somewhere to be tonight.”

Missandei’s eyes narrow at that. “What kind of somewhere? Daenerys, you haven’t got a date, have you?”

“Of course not,” she says, pulling her braid from beneath her collar. “I’m just going out.”

“So you _are_ going on a date! Who with!?”

Her best friend looks rather chagrined at the fact that she’s going out with someone. Daenerys knows that Missandei still harbours hope that she and Jorah will get together. Well, she doesn’t want to disappoint her friend in any aspect, especially when she is fervently hoping for the same, but nor does she want to invite that kind of pressure on to them. She doesn’t intend for them to be a dirty little secret, but she also knows that if they go public straight away then it will invite unnecessary pressures on to them both. Every single person they work with would be watching them as if they were specimen under a microscope, and she knows that Jorah would find that stifling. She wants that peace for herself, too. She doesn’t want to be judged and whispered about every time they’re seen together.

But nor will she lie. Not to Missandei.

“I’m meeting Jorah. We’re just going for a drink. But there’s nothing in it. We’re just friends.”

It’s the truth on a technicality. There’s nothing in it _yet_ ; there will be nothing in it tonight. Or at least she doesn’t think there will be. If the drink gives him courage, and if the circumstances are right, she wouldn’t resist him if he leaned in for a kiss…

Her daydreams are interrupted by Missandei’s squeal.

“Gods, you’re going out with Jorah Mormont!?”

“Not _out_ out,” she corrects her. “It’s just a drink after work.”

“Whose idea was this?”

“Mine. But it’s just a drink. I’m not going to invite him back to my place for a romp between the sheets.”

“But you want to…”

Daenerys huffs. “I’m not having this conversation with you if you can’t be sensible.”

“I _am_ being sensible. It’s you who can’t admit that there’s something weird going on with you.”

“Something weird? What are we, Faceless Men switched out with the real thing?”

“Oh, be quiet. Sexual tension. You can cut that with a knife and gorge on a slice of it.”

“I think you’ve been reading too many old Westerosi songs.”

“No, I just use my eyes. But fine, if you don’t want to admit it…”

Dany ignores the teasing. “It’s just a drink, we’re getting close to Christmas, and I think it’ll do us both good. I’ve been working hard and I know Jorah has too. He stays as late as I do most of the time.”

“That’s because he wants to make sure you get home safely. Because he loves you. I think everyone’s heard about his declaration of love to you.”

“That was years ago. His feelings have probably changed since then.” And although Dany’s sure that they haven’t, she still doesn’t want to dwell on those times too long. They are painful memories for the both of them, at a time when they had almost been ripped apart for good.

Missandei shrugs, unimpressed. “If you say so. But I think we all know what the truth is. Where are you going?”

“Why, are you going to gate crash?”

“Don’t be silly. I’d go as far in the opposite direction as possible if it meant that you two would stop dancing round each other.”

“As touched as I am by that, I’m still not going to tell you. It’s a surprise.”

“Well, I hope you have fun. Truly, I do. Even if it’s just as friends. You both deserve some time away to unwind and relax. And I suppose if nothing happened when you were in a romantic log cabin together, nothing is going to happen now…”

Daenerys flashes a rude hand gesture at her friend playfully; Missandei only laughs and moves to give her a hug.

“Go and have fun,” she says. “Try not to get into any trouble.”

“I’ll try. But you know what’s it’s like.”

“I do. You Targaryens…”

They laugh together again, and Daenerys departs in search of Jorah.

She finds him in the office he shares with the other men. Mercifully, he’s the only one in there.

“Where is everyone?” she asks by way of greeting.

Jorah looks up from the CCTV cameras. “Oh, they’re out. I’ve no idea where Daario is. Barristan’s gone into town for Tyrion. I think Torgo has been skulking about trying to catch Missandei.”

Daenerys smiles fondly. She hopes that’s true. The Unsullied and the Naathian would make such a sweet couple. Both of them have faced untold hardships and somehow come out the other side with their humanity still intact. Torgo doesn’t smile very often, but he does when he’s around Missandei. She simply has the power to make people feel better—about themselves, about their situations, about everything.

“And what about you?” she asks. “Are you ready to go?”

“Almost,” he says. “I’ve just got to finish reviewing this footage. One of Varys’ little birds reported that there was someone sniffing around here last night. Varys thinks that it was probably just someone looking for a place to stay. He’s a shrewd man, he’s probably right, but it’s better to be safe than sorry.”

“What will you do?”

“Oh, I’m sure Varys’ little birds will be able to track him down. If he’s just another poor lost soul looking for his place in the world we’ll bring him here and give him all that he needs. But if it’s someone who has been sent by someone else, we’ll report it to the City Watch.”

“How will you know?”

“I trust Varys’ instincts on these things. He’s been doing it a lot longer than any of us. He plays this game like no other.”

“I’m not worried about it. I’m sure it’s nothing.”

“As am I, Khaleesi. But it won’t pay to be complacent. There are so many people who resent what you’ve done for the world. You have challenged the richest, and they don’t like it. Look at Cersei Lannister. And she already hates her brother, so having him in league with you…”

“I’m not scared of Cersei Lannister. What can she do to me?”

“She’s done quite a lot of horrible stuff to a lot of people.”

“And she won’t be ever again. She’s finished now. We all saw to that.” But she lets him have his way, hopping up on one of the desks to wait for him as he finishes his review. They find a good shot of the culprit’s face, and Jorah prints it off, ready to hand over to Varys and one of his little birds so that the truth can be found. Only then does Jorah switch off his computer, shrug on his jacket, and stand.

“So, are you going to put me out of my misery now?” he asks as he tucks his phone and wallet into his jacket pocket.

“You really have no idea?”

“Not a clue. I’ve got no further than that gods-awful song. And even I would have to draw the line if your idea is to take me to see him live or something.”

Daenerys can’t help laughing aloud at that. “You’re wrong, ser. Do you really think I’m that bad?”

“You never know these days. Christmas turns people into beasts.” He waits until he’s finished locking up before resuming the conversation. “So, what is it?”

“An ice bar!” she tells him. “You know, _ice, ice_ …”

The look Jorah gives her makes it quite plain that he sees no correlation at all between her clue and the actual event. Well, perhaps it hadn’t been the best in the world, but she hadn’t known what else to tell him without giving it away entirely.

“An ice bar,” he repeats. “Well, it’s better than I was thinking.”

“Have you ever been to one before?” she asks as they start down the corridor.

“No. You don’t need that sort of thing in the north. Every pub you drink in feels like ice, even the ones with the fires that roar in the grates. The wind howls through the cracks in the structures. If you’re not bundled in furs you could well lose fingers to the frost, and it doesn’t pay to get too drunk. I’ve known men who have drunk so much that they’ve forgotten that they can feel the cold. They’ve been found the following day frozen to death in the snows.”

Daenerys shudders at the thought. “I can’t pretend that I’m not glad we’re down in King’s Landing.”

“I know, I know, you hate the cold. Dragons are creatures of fire, after all.”

“Do you ever miss it?” she asks softly. “The north? Would you go back if you could?”

“I miss it sometimes,” he admits. “I miss the way that the cold would be so cold that it would burn in my lungs. I miss the scent of the pines and the taste of the ale. I miss the landscape being so savage and barren that it was beautiful. I think about visiting sometimes. But then I think of everything that went wrong, and I know I wouldn’t be welcome there.”

“Why not? Ned Stark is dead,” she points out.

“But his family lives on. Your nephew included.” He gives her a pointed look. Her stomach twists at the mention of Jon. He’s the only living family she has left, but he’s never been interested in that. His whole life he craved to fit in with the Starks, the family he’d lingered on the outskirts of his entire childhood like a ghost. When they had finally found each other, it had been like a gift to her. She’d spent so many years as the last Targaryen alone in the world, but here was another, Rhaegar’s son no less.

And yet he’d shied away from it, turned his back on it; he wanted to be a Stark, not a Targaryen. His cousins did not trust or like her. He was caught between two warring sides of the family.

They had demanded a choice, and he had made it.

Daenerys speaks to him on occasion, but the conversations are brief, stilted, and unfulfilling, perfunctory for the sake of the familial bond they share.

“I’d like to see it one day,” she ventures.

He looks surprised at that. “You would?”

“Of course. It’s the one kingdom in Westeros I haven’t visited yet. And I would like to see where you came from. The north is important to you, so that makes it important to me.”

“It’s not as important as it once was. There was a time when it was all I ever dreamed about, returning home. But I don’t have that dream anymore.”

“No?”

“No. I’m happy here in King’s Landing, with you and everyone else.”

She knows that the _everyone else_ is just a formality—he is here for her alone. She is the person who inspires him to remain here, who he would sacrifice anything for, including his homeland, the homeland that had once been the dearest thing in his heart. She remembers those early days, when they had been bound together for a yearning for home—him for the lush greens and sparkling whites of Bear Island, her for a land she had never even seen a picture of.

They are bound with so much more than that now, even if he doesn’t yet know it. A shared sense of home, each found within the other.

Shaking away those thoughts, she skips a few paces in front of him and proclaims, like queen of the world, “On to the ice bar, dear ser!”

* * *

The Night King is an ice bar that appears once a year for the month of December. Named after the terror that once allegedly struck pure, unadulterated fear into the veins of every single person living, it’s alive inside with motifs of the past. Each year it appears on Shadowblack Lane, celebrating the legend of the Long Night and all of those who fought in it.

Daenerys and Jorah both have famous ancestors who allegedly faced that swarming darkness, overcoming it together alongside a thousand other brave men, women, and children. There are artist’s interpretation of that night all over the walls, from fiery dragons locked in battle to majestic swordsmen mid-blow, rendered as true heroes with their fierce expressions, the dramatic lighting, and the arcing blood.

It’s all a bit ostentatious for her taste, but The Night King is trendy and without a doubt one of the most interesting things to come to King’s Landing each year. They play low, alternate classical music in the background that sounds just like the score that would be used over a particularly dramatic scene in a television show, and it adds to the atmosphere. The lighting is all cold blue, giving the bar a sterile feel, but it is undeniably cool.

And _cold_.

Dany had made sure to dress warmly for the occasion, but she was not prepared for this. The temperature is below freezing to preserve the ice sculptures and the seating area—tables sculpted to depict infamous moments from the Long Night, the seats carved to look like horses being ridden into battle—but she hadn’t quite been prepared for it. The tip of her nose has already gone numb, and she can feel the chill creeping into her bones like a shadow born of R’hllor. Her fingers are encased in gloves, but they’re doing little to ward off the chill.

Jorah, by contrast, appears to be in his element. He’s wearing just a thin jacket, the same as he would anywhere else in King’s Landing, with no gloves or hat in sight. He notices her looking at him and reminds her, “Northman.”

“Madman, more like,” she says.

“You’re the one who wanted to come here.”

“I thought it was a Christmassy thing to do.”

“It might be, but you can’t spend the evening complaining about the cold.”

“I can if I want. I’m a Targaryen, after all. But if I get too cold I might well have to huddle up against you for warmth. You seem to have plenty of warmth left to share if you’re not cold.”

He pinks at that, clearing his throat. “I live to serve, Khaleesi. If that’s what you want…”

“I’m just saying, sharing body heat is a tip in all of the survival guides.” Of course, those same survival guides often recommend it without clothes, which wouldn’t go down too well in a public space. Nor is she sure he could keep her hands to herself if she saw Jorah naked…

Oh, who is she kidding? She’s likely to explode with excitement if she ever gets to see Jorah naked. Which she very much hopes she will. If the breadth of his shoulders and the broadness of his chest is anything to go by in the clothes he wears, she’s in for a treat.

Jorah waves a hand in front of her face. She blinks, coming out of her reverie.

“I said, what do you want to drink?” he asks.

“I’ll get them in. I need an excuse to keep moving. Look, there’s a table over there. You go and commandeer that. What do you want to drink?”

“Surprise me. I doubt they serve northern ales.”

“Well, it is based on a northern phenomenon. You would think they would. I’ll see what I can do for you.”

They part ways, Jorah to the table, Daenerys towards the bar. She’s served by a man who is bundled to the eyes in all manner of furs to keep him warm. She can’t blame him. She’d hate to work in a place like this.

The bar serves a variety of things. There’s a drink of something that she supposes is their version of a northern ale so purchases that, along with a wine for herself.

Jorah is busy gazing round the place when she makes her way over to him and places the glasses down with a chink. She slides onto the horse across from him, wincing as the backs of her leg touch the ice.

“I’m beginning to regret my decision to bring you here,” she says. “I didn’t think it would be so uncomfortable.”

“I’m not sure what you could have been expecting,” he chuckles. “Ice doesn’t tend to be anything less than freezing, you know.”

She scowls at his cleverness, taking a swig of her drink, which is just as cold as the rest of the place. Jorah mirrors her. She watches as he pulls a face, and smirks at him. A bit of justice to temper his arrogance.

“How is it?” she asks, nodding to his glass.

“It’s not real northern ale, I can tell you that much,” he shudders. “It’s a piss poor imitation.”

“They do good wines,” she says, indicating her glass. “This arbor red is beautiful. You should try this.”

He pulls a face. “Southron wines are _terrible_ , Khaleesi.”

“Not compared to northern ales.” Daenerys remembers the one and only time she tried one, curious for a taste of Jorah’s homeland. She’d almost spat the mouthful out. Northern ales were laced with bittered herbs, the only place they grew in the seven kingdoms because they needed the inordinately cold winters to thrive, and the ale had soured her mouth and made her lips numb. How anyone can drink something so awful is beyond her—even the Dothraki’s fermented mare’s milk is better. “The bartender was trying to pitch some novelty cocktails to me. We should at least try those.”

“They can’t be any worse than this,” Jorah concedes. “What were they?”

“I don’t know, exactly. They had interesting names, though. There was Night King’s Demise and Dragons Battle, Azor Ahai and Scarlet Crypts.”

“Half of them sound like Halloween drinks.”

“They’re all fruity and alcoholic, from what I can gather. Come on, they’re only here once a year. We should sample them. We’ll buy the lot and rate them.”

“One guess as to which you’re going straight for.”

“They’ve got one named after bears too. Don’t tell me that you wouldn’t want that one.”

He holds his hands up. “You’ve got me there. And you’re shivering.”

“What?” She hadn’t even noticed the tremor in her shoulders, too preoccupied with the conversation, with the rush of temperateness through her body at this easiness that flowed between the two of them like the currents on the Trident. How delightful it is when they’re alone with each other, with no eyes or ears around, where they can be as relaxed as they like with no questions asked.

“You’re really cold,” he clarifies. “Are you sure you don’t want to move to the warm area?”

She shakes her head stubbornly. “I’ve paid for us to have this experience. We’re not doing it properly if we turn tail at the first discomfort.”

“I’m sure that the others would prefer that you didn’t fall ill just because you wanted to experience some madman’s scheme,” says Jorah. “And I know how much you despise being ill. Remember the last time? You dragged yourself into work even though you were on death’s door.”

“I have a duty to do what I can to make the world a better place for people,” she says.

“And that’s admirable. But no one can survive in this world without help, no one,” he replies. “Needing aid isn’t a weakness. And if you don’t want everyone to help…at least let me. I’ve been by your side longer than any of them, Khaleesi. Let me help you wherever I can, even if it’s only in some small way.”

Daenerys stares at him for a moment. As much as she would like to deny it, his words ring true. She’s spent so long doing things alone that she finds it difficult to accept help or other opinions. One of her greatest flaws is her own supercilious surety that she is always right, but she knows that it was that very same trait that led to her father’s downfall. She does try her best to listen to and evaluate the counsel she is given, and has surrounded herself with men and women who can temper her rash impulses, but the horrors she has faced means that she finds it very difficult to appear vulnerable around anyone, even those she loves and trusts the most. She’s made progress in that regard, but there is always more to make. This year is going to be the year that she bridges that chasmic gap for good.

“You do help me,” she says. “You help me more than anyone else ever has, and I’m grateful to you for that. I always will be.”

“But?”

“No buts. I am very grateful to you, Jorah.” She debates reaching across the table for his hand to emphasise her point, but she isn’t sure that he wouldn’t withdraw it like a craggoman melting into the marsh.

“Then let me at least be a gentleman now and offer you my jacket,” he says.

“No, you can’t do that!” she protests, but he’s already started shrugging it from his shoulders. “You’ll be cold!”

“I have the blood of the First Men in my veins,” he reassures her. “I’ll be fine. Dragons, on the other hand, can’t tolerate the cold and we can’t let your fire burn out.” More seriously, he adds, “Please, Daenerys. It will make me feel better knowing that you’re not cold.”

“At least promise me that you’ll tell me if you _do_ start to feel cold so I can give you your jacket back. We should share it if you’re going to give it to me.”

“Fine,” he says. “I promise to tell you if I feel cold. Now, let me go and get those drinks in for us.”

Daenerys smiles at his back as he walks away from her, those strong shoulder blades shifting beneath his shirt. Gods, how had she ever been silly enough to overlook him for Drogo and Daario? She pulls his jacket tighter around her shoulders and dips her nose to the lapel, breathing in the scent of him. He has such a wonderful smell, one that no one else could possibly recreate. It’s comfort, it’s sexy.

It’s home.

Smiling into the lining of his jacket, Daenerys settles herself as comfortably as she can on the ice-carved horse to await Jorah’s return.

“Daenerys Targaryen in the flesh!”

At the sound of the loud voice over the instrumental, moody music, Daenerys whips around in her seat, almost sliding straight off the horse’s saddle to land on her arse on the ice floor. She cracks her elbow painfully against the horse’s neck and swears, eyes darting frantically. It isn’t, it can’t be…

But it is.

Tyrion Lannister stands in front of her, shit-eating grin firmly in place, his eyes twinkling with gleeful mischief. Behind him are several of their compatriots, including Bronn, Podrick Payne, Varys. Bringing up the rear are Torgo, Barristan…and Missandei.

For a long moment, Daenerys stares at them, unsure of what to say or how to act. How is she going to explain to them that she is here with Jorah Mormont and that it’s _not_ a cosy date?

“I think she’d be wearing something very different if she was in the flesh,” Bronn says, casting an appreciative eye over her nevertheless.

“Don’t speak about Daenerys like that,” Torgo grumbles, scowling in Bronn’s direction. Like most of the other men who travelled with her from Essos, Torgo is fiercely protective of her, and does not tolerate anyone making derogatory comments about her.

Bronn never takes offence, he only laughs. In truth, Daenerys doesn’t much care for him. She only keeps him around for Tyrion’s sake, for her right hand man is very fond of him and she understands that they have a very colourful shared history which would be difficult to break.

“What are you doing here?” she asks instead, through gritted teeth, her eyes finding Missandei. She hadn’t told Missandei where she was going with Jorah, and she doesn’t think that her friend would ever pry in this way, especially not by bringing along so many people, but she told no one else of her plans for tonight so how would they know…?

“I wasn’t aware that our every movement needed to be vetted by you, dear leader,” Tyrion answers cheerfully, with just the slightest touch of irascibility. “We’re not on the clock, we’re all free to go where we like. And it just so happens that we were all interested in trying this place out. It’s in the headlines all over town, we wanted to see what the fuss was about.” He pauses for breath here, a rare thing, but she knows the pause is only for dramatic effect. “And what about you?”

“What about me?”

Tyrion makes a show of looking this way and that. “You appear to be sitting here all alone. Have you been stood up?”

“I’m not on a date,” she grounds out.

“No? So you decided to come here all on your own?”

“There’s nothing wrong with that,” she says, and grits her teeth. Tyrion is no fool. He must know that she’s not here alone. And must surely have caught sight of Jorah at the bar. “I’m here with Jorah, actually. We’re discussing the plans for next week.”

“Ah, the plans,” Tyrion echoes, in a patronising tone that suggests he doesn’t believe a word of it. “And you weren’t going to ask for our input?”

“Of course,” Daenerys says impatiently. “We’re going to have a meeting like we always do.”

“So why is Mormont getting special treatment? He’s not being a sneaky bastard and getting in before us, is he?”

“Giving head and getting ahead, so to speak,” Bronn sniggers.

Dany feels her ears heating up with embarrassment. “Don’t be so ridiculous.”

“Then what are you doing getting cosy in a place like this?” says Tyrion.

“That’s enough,” Missandei interrupts, jumping to her rescue. “Don’t be a prick, Tyrion. We all know that Daenerys and Jorah are friends.”

“Oh, I know. I’m only teasing. Is that a crime nowadays?”

“No,” says Daenerys, “but it’s a stupid thing to joke about and my patience wears thin.”

Tyrion holds up his stubby hands. “Then allow me to make it up to you. This round is on me. What would you like to drink?”

“Jorah is fetching me one, thank you.”

“I’ll take you up on that offer,” says Bronn.

“I knew you would. You like to take advantage of my kind Lannister generosity.”

“I don’t think the words ‘kind’ and ‘Lannister’ belong in the same sentence.”

“My sister is demented and my father was a first class arsehole, but my brother Jaime is okay and I am by far the best of the bunch. Now come and help me carry the drinks. We can join our fearless leader at her table. I’m sure she won’t mind.”

“Carry your own drinks.”

“Oh, yes, excellent idea, given that I’m two foot high and can barely carry a feather…”

The slightly spiky banter recedes as Bronn and Tyrion disappear into the crowd. Pod hurries after them. Torgo and Barristan exchange awkward looks and evidently note the grim set of her jaw.

“Why don’t we go and give the lads a hand?” says Barristan.

“Sounds like a good idea,” Torgo agrees, and the two of them slouch away together towards the bar with Varys in tow, leaving Daenerys and Missandei alone. Her friend shuffles uncomfortably.

“I promise I didn’t tell them anything,” she says. “I didn’t know you were going to be here tonight. You didn’t tell me you were coming here, did you? It was Tyrion’s idea. He must have known.”

Daenerys thinks back to her conversation with Jorah in the corridors before they left. They hadn’t taken pains to keep their voices lowered. They could easily have been overheard. And Tyrion is the kind of slippery little eel that would have eavesdropped on their conversation and sought to ruin their evening.

“Tyrion’s idea of a joke,” Missandei agrees without her having to say a word, shuddering as she takes a seat beside her. “I did wonder why he was so eager to come here of all places. Now it makes sense. He wanted to catch you in the middle of something.”

“He was destined to be sorely disappointed, then,” Daenerys says stubbornly. “There’s nothing happening here. We were just having a nice drink, that’s all.”

“I believe you,” Missandei says hurriedly. “Try not to let Tyrion get to you. You know what he’s like. He’s always trying to get a rise out of people.”

“I know.” But that doesn’t make it any easier to stomach. Jorah will be mortified to be caught out with her, even if they aren’t doing anything wrong. He’ll spend the rest of the night worrying what people think, if they can see the hearts in his eyes as he looks upon her, because he is a man who finds it difficult to mask his true emotions.

His eyes always betray him.

She just hopes that the others don’t accost him at the bar first. If _she_ can be the one to break the news, at least it might make it a little easier.

Thankfully, her prayers are answered. She spies Jorah making his way back towards her, carefully balancing a tray filled with drinks.

He can’t mask his surprise when he sees Missandei sitting at the table with her, but he recovers quickly.

“Hello, Missandei,” he greets her. “This is a nice surprise. What are you doing here?”

Missandei sends her a guilty glance before replying. “I’m here with a few of us from work. It was Tyrion’s idea. He’s at the bar with the others, getting drinks.”

Jorah’s gaze slides from Missandei to her. “I see. Well, that’s nice. You’re welcome to join us, of course.” There’s no masking the slight disappointment in his tone, but Daenerys pretends not to notice.

“Come and sit down next to me,” she instructs him. The least she can do is ensure that he’s protected from Tyrion’s droll tongue.

Jorah slides the tray down the table and does as he’s bid. He takes one of the drinks and gives it a glum swig. Daenerys picks up one too, the dragon one, but the excitement of trying these new, exotic flavours has all but evaporated. Missandei gives her a sympathetic look.

“I can try to get them away,” she says. “We’re encroaching on your evening.”

“The more the merrier,” Jorah says with a tight smile. “Please, join us.”

How can Daenerys argue against that without it seeming like they _are_ interrupting something? So she nods.

“We’ve not had a night out together like this in ages,” she says. “It’ll be fun.”

Missandei looks abashed. “Well, if you’re sure.”

“I am,” says Daenerys. People will talk if they say anything else.

There’s no time for any further conversation, for at that moment the rest of the gang return, clutching drinks and snacks.

Tyrion scrabbles ungraciously up to the table, almost sliding off the edge of his ice seat. He’s dressed in resplendent Lannister red furs, looking like a king surveying his subjects.

“Let’s get pissed!” is his wise council.

He’s met with cheers from his closest friends, and they settle in.

As the conversation blossoms around them, Daenerys chances leaning in closer to Jorah.

“I’m sorry,” she says in a low voice.

“It’s not your fault.”

“I know, but I feel responsible anyway. Tyrion must have heard us talking before we left.”

“Please don’t feel responsible. We all know what Tyrion is like. And no doubt his eyes lit up at the prospect of being a thorn in my side yet again. He takes every opportunity he gets, you know that.”

“Still, this isn’t what I intended for our evening.”

He shrugs. “Our plans have very rarely gone smoothly, have they? There’s always next year.”

And there _is_ next year. Where they will repeat this experience again, just the two of them, finally getting to try the new cocktails in peace—and sharing a cold kiss over the sculpted table of Winterfell’s godswood.

Ensuring that no one is paying them close attention, Dany slides her hand beneath the table, coming into contact with Jorah’s. He starts a little at that, but relaxes when she strokes her thumb over the back of his hand, before slipping her fingers through his. His close around hers.

It’s not quite holding hands in the traditional sense, but warmth floods through her anyway, defying their frigid environment.

Neither one of them breaks contact until their time is up and they have to move to the warm bar.

* * *

**Week Four, Day Ten**

_The party’s on, the feeling’s here that only comes this time of year…_

* * *

“I’m going to let Tyrion tell you the next clue,” Daenerys tells him.

Jorah narrows his eyes at her. “I thought you weren’t going to tell Tyrion anything?”

“I haven’t.”

“Then why is _he_ going to tell me?”

He’s going to tell everyone,” she says, grinning.

“So you’re inviting _everyone_ along?”

“It is Christmas, Jorah.”

He frowns at that, but it makes Daenerys’ heart flutter, for surely it means that he’s got used to the two of them doing this strange little advent calendar of activities together, and he doesn’t want anyone else to muscle their way in on it. As if she would let them. Because it _is_ theirs now.

“Fine,” he sighs. “If that’s what you want. I’ve survived this long, I’m sure I can survive until the end.”

“That’s the spirit. I’ll see you at the meeting.”

The meeting is scheduled for an hour’s time, and it isn’t long before that hour is up. Daenerys slips in the back of the canteen as Tyrion addresses the masses, standing on a table in the middle of the room so he can be seen. He’s good at this, the showmanship, the getting people to do what he wants. It’s why she entrusts him with so much. Despite his Lannister name, Tyrion is _likeable_ , and most of the people they work closely with appreciate his no-nonsense manner.

Sometimes the staff do less so, but he’s still a hugely popular member amongst them too.

“Ladies and gentleman, I’ve gathered you all here today to talk about the most anticipated event on our social calendar this year!” he calls. “Christmas is just around the corner, so you know what that means! It’s a chance for us to let our hair down and get pissed!” Here he spares a wry glance for Varys. “Well, for most of us, anyway.”

Varys rolls his eyes.

“This is going to be the biggest shindig we’ve had so far, to celebrate how far _Breaker of Chains_ has come!” continues Tyrion. “I’m talking endless drinks, the best food supplied in King’s Landing, fireworks! The only thing I haven’t been able to acquire is some pretty ladies to brighten the place up. If you want someone to blame for that, look no further than our fearless leader.”

“Spoilsport!” Daario hollers, flashing her a charming smile. “I hope this means you’ll be coming with me?”

His inference about the end of the evening remains unsaid, but Daenerys knows that’s what he’s implying. Although their fling has been over for quite some time, he’s still trying to win her back over. He takes no offence to her rebuttals, but he’s persistent. It’s equal parts entertaining and irritating. She values the Tyroshi as an important member of her senior team, and is sometimes glad of his laid back approach to life, but she’s not interested in him like that anymore. By the end of their short romance, they were on different chapters. He’d raced ahead to the happy ending, she’d grown bored of the first few pages. He’d been a whirlwind, a distraction to take her mind off the more difficult parts of her job.

He’s not the port, that steady, dependable place to return to whenever solace is needed.

At Daario’s words, Dany notices Jorah’s jaw tighten, though he does not shift his gaze away from Tyrion. He’d disapproved of that relationship from the start, though she’s sure that had more to do with jealousy than anything else, because everyone in the world had known that he loved her. Though he’s as aware of her single status as everyone else is, he likely doesn’t believe that she can resist Daario’s charms for much longer when she was so quick to take him to bed in the first instance.

Well, she’ll show them all.

Tyrion finishes his speech with a flourish, to wild applause from the masses. He takes an extravagant bow before hopping back down to the floor. It’s the signal that the meeting is over and it’s time to get back to work.

“A party?” Jorah says lowly in her ear as they make their way towards the hallway. “I should have guessed that. Gods. You know I hate parties.”

“Everyone needs a Christmas party. It’s a fact of life.”

“We’ve made do without them for plenty of years now,” he points out.

“That was different. That was in Essos. Everything’s different there. But this is Westeros, and we’d better look as if we’re trying to fit in. People already see me as some kind of foreign invader.”

“Those people are fools,” Jorah says staunchly.

“Be that as it may, it doesn’t change things. So I expect to see you at the party on Thursday dressed in your best. I don’t want to see you in that yellow shirt.”

“What, so you’re dressing me now?” he grunts.

Oh, she wants to _un_ dress him, she thinks, chewing the inside of her cheek to stop herself from telling him just that. She doesn’t want to give the poor man a heart attack before she’s had the chance to confess her feelings. And it isn’t as if she dislikes that yellow shirt. It’s faded and threadbare in places now, and frayed about the buttons that just don’t seem to be able to stay buttoned, but it fits his physique so _nicely_. Shows off those broad shoulders, gives her a generous view of his chest and the smattering of golden hair that peppers it, tapers so nicely at the hips…

“Daenerys, are you all right?”

She pulls herself back to the present, clearing her throat. “Yes, I’m fine.” Gods, she really has to stop zoning out like that whenever he’s nearby, else he really might start to think she’s as mad as her father was.

Jorah eyes her for a moment more before shaking his head, evidently thinking better of probing further. “Well, I can’t promise that I’ll enjoy any part of this, but I will promise to show up.”

“Good. Otherwise I’d come to your door and drag you here myself.” Or to his bed. She’s not sure she could resist that temptation if it was so close to her.

He shakes his head at that. “If you say so, Khaleesi. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’d better get back to work.”

“Okay. I’ll see you later?”

He nods, and she watches as he strolls away, smiling despite himself.

* * *

Thursday evening comes around quickly. Daenerys spends more time than usual getting ready. She’s not the kind of woman who cares much about how she looks—she’s far more interested in making sure that her people are looked after—but tonight is different. Tonight she’s seeing Jorah.

It’s not as if it’s the first time. In fact, they’ve spent more time together than anyone else, and more so this month than they have for a while. He’s seen her at her worst, when she looked no better than a bedraggled cat, all skin and bone, as they made their way through the Red Waste with just enough to get them to the other side.

She never feels like she _has_ to make an effort for him, not like she had with Drogo. Even when she knows she looks a mess, he never looks at her with anything less than adoration.

But she wants to wow him tonight. Wants to be the only woman in the room to hm. She’s not stupid. She knows the kind of thing that goes off at Christmas parties. Drunken one night stands, whirlwind romances—seven hells, that was exactly what happened to her last Christmas with Daario. Irri is with Rakharo now, but Jhiqui is still single, and though she’s sure that Jorah hasn’t been with anyone else since the two of them met, she knows that there are plenty of women who find him attractive, despite what he might protest to the contrary.

Even if it’s only in idle contemplation, she’s as jealous as a dragon, and she doesn’t want his attention diverted from her by anyone.

So here she stands in front of her mirror, making sure everything is perfect. She’s bought a new dress especially for the occasion. It’s flared, dramatic; blood-red in colour, torn through with black silk, tapered perfectly to her frame. These are her house colours: fire and blood. Whatever other people might say, she is proud of her Targaryen heritage, and she needs the confidence of her sigil tonight.

“Are you ready to go?” she asks Missandei. Her best friend had offered to come over to help her sort her hair. Dany doesn’t know where she’d be without the Naathian. She is quite literally a goddess, perhaps the Mother or the Maiden. Missandei is the cleverest person that Daenerys knows. She’s fluent in nineteen languages and can read the energy of a room within seconds. And she is a dab hand at braiding hair.

The braids tonight are elaborate and impressive, very much like her name. Stormborn, the conqueror. One braid joins with another, making almost a crown, and falling like a river down her back. It makes her feel as powerful as a khaleesi.

The journey to the venue is a short one. Tyrion, with his endless contacts, has managed to acquire one of the swankiest places in King’s Landing. Daenerys has little respect for Petyr Baelish, who makes her skin crawl every time she sets eyes on him, but she has to admit that the man knows how to set a scene. _Littlefinger’s_ is decked out with impressive Christmas trees, seductive twinkling lights, and mistletoe galore. Tinsel vines around the original pillars from the age of dragons and white walkers, carved with the stories of the Long Night. Diaphanous silks act as doorways through the various rooms. Above the hall are several rooms, which Dany is sure Baelish will be making a handsome profit on tonight.

The party is already well underway. Christmas songs blare out from the speakers as disco lights flash over the dancefloor. She spies Barristan with Torgo by the bar, the former with a whiskey, the latter with his customary water. She digs Missandei in the ribs and points them out.

“There’s your boyfriend,” she teases.

It’s Missandei’s turn to be coy. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Yes, you do. You should just admit that you like each other.”

“We _do_ like each other.”

“Not just as friends. _Everyone_ can see it.”

“Like everyone can see you and Jorah?” Missandei retorts cheekily.

Daenerys scowls at her. “You mean _you_.”

Missandei hums non-committally. “Shall we go and get a drink?”

They make their way to the bar. Daenerys doesn’t fail to notice the glances that Missandei and Torgo sneak at each other, soft, shy smiles on their faces. When Missandei is involved Torgo is a different person entirely. Whether they want to come out and say it or not, they make a lovely couple. Missandei softens Torgo’s rough edges, and Torgo gives Missandei a confidence that she lacked for a long time. They’ve been fashioned by the gods to fit together, just as she and Jorah have been.

And speaking of Jorah…

Daenerys’ eyes drift over and latch on to him as he enters the room, ducking beneath the silk curtain. She’s been idly watching out for him for the past hour, and her heart flutters when she catches sight of him, her heart alerting her before her brain does.

He scrubs up very, _very_ well. She’s so used to seeing him dressed casually at work, in jeans and one of his shirts—usually the yellow one, which has been washed to within an inch of its life.

Tonight he’s made a real effort. Black tailored trousers. A crisp white shirt, though he hasn’t quite managed to fasten the first three buttons, giving a very generous view of the top of his chest and, rather erotically, his collarbones. Daenerys had never thought she’d see the day where a glimpse of someone’s collarbones would leave her flushed.

The white shirt is paired with a smart black jacket. Tonight he looks more like a rich businessman than a poor exile.

Beside her, Missandei whistles. “Wow. Jorah looks nice.”

“Yeah,” Dany replies airily, though she doubts she’s fooling her best friend in the slightest.

“I think you should go over and say hello.”

“I will in a bit.”

“No, you should go now. You’re the host. It’ll look rude if you don’t greet your guests.”

Daenerys doesn’t point out that she hasn’t greeted anyone in over half an hour because she’s been rooted to Missandei’s side. She is very aware of the curious looks that Torgo and Barristan are giving her.

“Fine,” she says. “Look after my drink for me. I’ll be back in a minute.”

“No problem,” Missandei says cheekily, and shoos her away.

She can feel their eyes burning her as she makes her way across the room to Jorah’s side. He’s standing there looking like a bear in the desert, unsure of which way to turn. He’s less comfortable here in Westeros than he was in Essos. Daenerys remembers the wild Dothraki parties of the early days. Jorah had always seemed to enjoy those, laughing and joking and drinking with the other men, though he never left her side for long. She smiles at the memory. Nothing could beat those parties, not even Tyrion’s best attempts with a goat, a honeycomb, and a brothel.

Jorah spots her before she reaches him, his face cracking into a relieved smile that makes her heart do a backflip.

“Khaleesi,” he says.

“Ser Jorah,” she replies, bestowing the flirty nickname upon him as she so often does and watching his cheeks flush in the flashing lights. He reminds her of a knight of old, a knight of the seven kingdoms who would have done anything to protect the people he loved. He’d scoffed and waved the nickname away, but just as Khaleesi has stuck for her, so Ser has stuck for him.

“You look gorgeous,” he tells her, then clears his throat, his eyes darting away from her.

No one would have been able to mistake the look in his eyes—one of greedy reverence, like a bear tempted with honey. Her own body trembles in response.

“Thank you,” she says. “I thought I should make an effort tonight.”

“I’m sure it comes to you effortlessly.”

“So you like the dress?” she says, twisting a little this way and that to give him a full three hundred and sixty degree angle.

The lump in his throat rolls as he swallows. His eyes flicker all over her, warming her skin wherever his gaze lingers. “I, um, don’t know much about fashion. But it suits you. I like the…colours.”

Daenerys bites the inside of her cheek at his diplomatic answer. Even with his misstep he’s trying to stay within the boundaries. “Yes, I chose them for House Targaryen. Look, my dragon pendant matches wonderfully, doesn’t it?”

His eyes automatically drop to her plunging neckline, and she smirks as she watches his eyes linger over the swell of her breasts before hastily following the line of the thick chain. It’s one of the few heirlooms she has, a relic passed down centuries. She’s surprised Viserys kept it at all and didn’t pawn it for the first amount offered to him. He wasn’t known as the Beggar King for nothing. He’d sold off all of their other possessions over the years to keep a roof over their heads—and even then he hadn’t managed that every night.

This particular necklace is a beautiful thing, the silver three-headed dragon heavy and hefty, glorious in its intricacy. She wears it most days hidden out of sight beneath her clothes. It gives her a sense of security, a confidence in herself that was missing for so long. She is the dragon’s daughter. Her family words are fire and blood, strong, violent words which hail back to the conquerors her family were, the royalty, the _gods_ , with the silver hair and violet eyes that are prominent even today, so many centuries later.

“It does match,” Jorah rasps. “The ruby eyes are a nice touch.”

His own eyes have drifted helplessly back to her chest. She runs her fingers down the silver chain and watches him follow.

If they were alone, she’d catch his hand in hers and bring it up to the pendant, letting him feel it for himself…and whatever else he might want to feel too.

Alas, they’re not alone, and she forces her mind in a more appropriate direction. “Would you like a drink? I was just having one with Missandei.”

“I’m going to need one to get through the evening,” he agrees. “Especially if Tyrion’s in charge of the entertainment. Whatever he says, I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s smuggled in a couple of Littlefinger’s strippers. Between him, Bronn, and Daario, there’s enough of an audience.”

“He wouldn’t dare. If he did, he’d have me to deal with.”

“As much as I would enjoy you roasting him alive, I’m not sure he fears you as much as he ought to. You’re a very small dragon.”

Jorah means the words as a playful jab, and she takes no offence. It _is_ true that she is short, though she’s found that size isn’t indicative of power or authority. Despite the fact that she doesn’t even reach his shoulders, he defers to her without hesitation every time. “I may be a small dragon, but even I’m taller than Tyrion is.”

Jorah chuckles at that. “That’s true. It’s hard to find anyone smaller. If only his mouth matched his stature.”

“And other parts of him, if you believe what he says,” she giggles. “Now, come on, let’s get you a drink.”

She drags him into the crowd, back to where the others are still gathered around the bar. Missandei gives her a wink, which she pointedly ignores.

They spend a happy ten minutes conversing before Dany glances at her watch. She _is_ the host here, and so far she hasn’t travelled out of her favourite circle. Whether she wants to or not, she does need to go around and ensure that all of the guests are having a good time. It wouldn’t do to ignore them, and she doesn’t want Tyrion and Varys spreading stupid rumours in the morning.

“I’ve got to go for a bit,” she murmurs to him, silently rejoicing at the disappointment on his face.

“Can’t you delay a little longer?”

“I could, but I think my absence will be noted. I won’t be too long. I just have to speak to a few other people. You’d better not sneak away while I’m gone. I expect you to be back by my side soon enough.”

“Yes, Khaleesi. I’ll wait here for you.”

“Have another drink. Free bars don’t come around too often.”

“I don’t think I can get properly drunk again after spending so many years drinking fermented mare’s milk.”

She giggles at that; she has fond memories of all of them being more than a little tipsy beneath the stars, his body warm and reassuring next to hers as she used him for a prop. There had been some drunken musings curling through her head on that night, ones she had guiltily regretted in the morning when she woke up naked next to Drogo. Under different circumstances, perhaps something would have happened in the Dothraki Sea.

But fate did not want that. So now here they are, years later, about to embark on a new journey into the unknown. She has feared fate for too long. No longer. This time, she will take it into her own hands.

Everyone appears to be having a good time. Bronn, Daario, Tyrion, and Podrick sit in one corner with a table full of empty shot glasses—they appear to be playing some sort of drinking game. Daenerys wouldn’t want to wager who will win that one. Daario hails her over and she goes, letting them chatter at her.

“C’mon sit here,” Daario says, slapping his thigh. “Plenty of room for you, baby.”

Daenerys ignores the pet name. She’s told him plenty of times that she hates it, but he continues to use it anyway. He probably thinks he’s being charming and funny. He isn’t, but sometimes she grows tired of fighting against the patriarchal system which seeks to keep her in her place at the bottom of the pile.

“No, thanks,” she says instead.

Daario pouts. “Why not? You used to love sitting here.”

Tyrion sniggers into his glass. “Careful, Naharis, or we’ll be clamouring for details.”

The Tyroshi runs a hand through his effortlessly mussed hair. “I don’t think our queen would be very happy about that. But I want to make it clear that I have many, _many_ wild memories…”

“Daario, enough,” she tells him evenly. Her temper simmers just beneath the surface, but she knows she can’t let it show. If she does, she’ll be branded unstable, mad, the same as her father. A woman who can’t take a joke. It’s not meant to be demeaning, they’ll tell her, as if she’s stupid for overreacting. More and more she regrets letting herself get swept away by him. Oh, they’d had fun together, there’s no denying that. At the time, she’d needed the release, needed something casual and pointless that she could pick up and drop whenever she liked with no pressure. He was decent in bed, if a little selfish—more style than substance.

He holds up his hands. “Okay, okay.” Then adds, in what she assumes he thinks is a whisper in his drunken state, “She’s fierce, you know. It’s like being a dragon rider.”

More jeers at that. Daenerys shoots him a glare but turns on her heel. She doesn’t want to give any of them the satisfaction. What’s done is done. She can’t change the past. She has nothing to be ashamed of. Each and every one of them has done things far worse than she has.

But she can’t help but compare Jorah to them. She doubts he was always a saint in his youth. He’s probably done his fair share of unsavoury things. But now…

_Now_ he’s a gentleman. And she can’t imagine him ever breathing a word of what they do to anyone else. He would never sit around with Tyrion and the others and make sly little digs or allude to their sex life. That wasn’t his way.

And that’s why he is the best man for her, even if it’s taken her some time to realise it. He puts her needs before his own every time. He would never break an oath to her; if she asked him to keep things private, he would do so without hesitation.

At last, she makes her way back to his side.

“Hey,” she greets him, accepting the drink that he slides across the bar to her. “Did I miss much?”

“No,” he says. “Are you all right?” His eyes scan her face, and she gets the impression that he’s been watching her, that he saw the exchange with Daario. She forces a smile.

“I’m fine. Why wouldn’t I be?”

“I don’t know. Things just looked a little heated over there. Was Daario giving you a hard time?”

“Nothing I can’t handle,” she says truthfully.

Jorah gives her a probing look. She can read the question in his eyes, the question he doesn’t want to give voice to for fear that he’ll receive the answer he doesn’t want to hear.

She knows that no matter what that answer is, he doesn’t think it will make a difference to him.

How wrong he is.

“There’s nothing going on there, you know,” she reassures him.

“It’s none of my business.” Jorah takes a sip of his drink, trying to appear casual. He isn’t fooling her. She remembers all too well the look of betrayal upon his face when he’d stumbled across the two of them together.

“Still, it’s the truth.”

She doesn’t miss his smile, though he tries to hide it behind his glass.

“I’ve got something else to show you, you know,” she says.

“Oh?”

“Yes. Come one.”

He downs the rest of his drink, places his glass back on the bar, and follows her. She catches hold of his sleeve and pulls him after her, weaving in and out of the partiers. She spies Missandei and Torgo on the dancefloor together. They’re very close.

And are getting closer.

She catches sight of him leaning in, their foreheads brushing, noses skimming, mouths meeting…

“It’s about time,” Jorah says in her ear. She jumps; she hadn’t realised he’d been following her gaze so closely.

“It is,” she agrees with a grin. “I _knew_ something was going on there. Missandei can’t keep her eyes off him whenever they’re in the same room together.”

“Torgo doesn’t talk much, but when he does it’s always about Missandei,” says Jorah. “I helped teach him the Common Tongue, you know.”

Surprised, Daenerys turns to face him. “Did you? I never knew that.”

He shrugs modestly. “Torgo is a good man. I wanted to help him. He knew it would be easier to communicate with everyone if he could speak the Common Tongue, and I think he wanted to impress Missandei.”

“Well, it certainly worked.” Daenerys nods at the two of them. Missandei and Torgo’s kiss has ended; now she rests her head in the crook of his shoulder as they sway to the crooning of Bing Crosby.

“They deserve it. They’re two of the best people I know.”

“Yes, they do,” Dany agrees. “I think they will be very happy together.” Just as she and Jorah will be, gods be good.

They leave the two of them behind, making their way to the outskirts of the room, where a door leads to the back. She gestures to it, and Jorah eyes her suspiciously.

“Don’t worry, I’m not going to lock you in there and throw away the key,” she teases. “I’m coming with you.” She pushes it open and gestures for him to go inside first.

Inside, a box has been set up, decorated garishly with Santas and snowmen and penguins and candy canes, a a parcel-like box in wrapping paper.

“What is it that I’m supposed to be looking at?” Jorah asks sceptically.

Daenerys rolls her eyes. “It’s a photo booth.”

“A photo booth?” he echoes, as if that hasn’t made things any clearer for him.

“Come on, you must have used a photo booth before!”

“Well, yes, for my passport. But this doesn’t look like that.”

“It’s the same principle. Just more fun.”

“More fun?”

“Well, I don’t know about you, but I’ve never been able to take a passport photo wearing a silly hat and glasses.”

“I’m not sure why you’d want to.”

She slaps his arm. “You’re proving Tyrion right, you know. He said you wouldn’t like it.”

“As much as he annoys me, he’s a shrewd man.”

“He’ll be even more annoying if he finds out he’s right.”

“True,” Jorah concedes. “So why have you brought me here, out of curiosity?”

“Well, everyone is going to be allowed to use it soon. I thought it would be fun if we tested it first.”

“I was worried you were going to say that.”

“Don’t be such a bear. You’ll test it with me, won’t you?”

“Do I have a choice?”

“Of course. If you really don’t want to, I suppose I could go and fetch Daario…”

Those words work like a charm; Jorah puffs out his chest. “No, I’ll do it.”

“Great!” she says brightly. “Let’s go, then!” She grabs hold of his hand and drags him forward. “What do you want to wear?”

He surveys the accessories laid out on the table with little enthusiasm. “I’ll take this, I suppose.” He picks up a fluffy boa and winds it around his neck. “There, how do I look?”

“Sexy,” she says without missing a beat. He blushes at that. “I think I’ll take this.” She picks up a pair of Santa shaped glasses. “Now these will make me hot.”

Jorah clears his throat. “Shall we?”

She pushes them on and goes inside first, Jorah following close behind.

It’s a tight squeeze in there. Jorah is a tall man and takes up most of the room, his knees crammed into the small space. His elbow catches her in the side as he tries to get comfortable.

“Gods, I’m sorry,” he says. “I think this was designed for someone of Tyrion’s stature.”

“It’s okay, I’ve had worse.” She shifts until her thigh touches the side of the box. “There, is that any better for you?”

“A bit. Do you have any idea what we’re supposed to do?”

“Not really. But I’m sure we’ll figure it out. Look, there’s the camera,” she says, nodding in front of them. “When I push this button, it should take a picture. Shall we try it?”

“You might as well, since you dragged me in here for that.”

“Say cheese.” Dany snaps the picture. After a few seconds of whirring, the little photograph spits out in front of them, curling just slightly at the edges with the heat. She picks it up.

“Aww, look at us,” she comments. “You could relax a little more, though. I promise I’m not going to eat you.”

“But is that a promise one can trust from a dragon?” comes Tyrion’s voice from the other side of the wall. “I’m wounded that you’ve started the party without me.”

Interrupted. Daenerys bites back a curse.

“I was only testing it,” she says.

“I’m sure.” Tyrion’s voice drips with sarcasm. “Are you decent in there?”

“Of course we are!” Jorah’s voice is a dangerous growl.

“Well, you never know with these things. A close space, a camera, all manner of curiosities could overcome you…”

“You talk such shit,” Jorah snaps, extricating himself out of the box with great difficulty. Tyrion only smirks up at him.

“I often find that those who think I’m talking shit are the ones who are actually scared of the truth,” he says. “Is that what’s happening here?”

“Oh, leave him alone,” Daenerys says, following Jorah out.

“As Your Grace commands.” Tyrion bows.

“Don’t be a prick.”

“I’ll try, but it’s difficult. Anyway, is it all working well?”

“It appears to be.”

“So the others can come in?”

“If they want.”

“Excellent. And the wall is ready to go?”

Dany gestures to the space behind them. “Yes. We’ve got pins ready.”

“Then what are we waiting for? I declare this officially open!”

And so, over the next couple of hours, the room is filled with various party-goers interested in the novelty of the photo booth. Daenerys and Missandei squeeze inside together, each of them wearing flamboyant Christmas hats. She shares the space with Missandei and Torgo too, Dany with an arm flung around each of them. Tyrion, Bronn, and Pod make rude hand gestures at the camera, red-faced from the drink. Each picture is pinned to the wall as a reminder of their night.

Towards the end of the evening, Daenerys finds Jorah one more.

“I want us to have one more picture together,” she says.

“The first one wasn’t enough?”

“That was only a test. I’ve had pictures with all of my friends since then. I want a proper one with you now. Please?”

He sighs. “If that’s what you want.”

Grinning, she tugs him after her and hops into the booth, grabbing a couple of cursory items from the Christmas desk as she passes.

“Here you go,” she says, thrusting one at Jorah’s chest. “Put that on.”

He wrinkles his nose. “Antlers? Really?”

“It’s only for a few seconds. Don’t be a spoilsport.”

He holds his hands up in acquiescence, jamming it on. Daenerys dons her own and squeezes up tight against him. He drapes one arm around her shoulder and pulls her tighter to his chest. He’s warm. Reassuring. She rests her cheek against him.

“Ready?” she murmurs.

“Ready,” he responds.

“Three, two, one…!”

The bulb flashes once, capturing the moment for all eternity.

A split-second.

A split-second for her to make her decision.

Impulsively, like a dragon aiming for the stars.

The second flash, freezing the moment that she turns to gaze up at him.

The third, with her lips finding the corner of his mouth, chaste enough that it could be mistaken for low on the cheek at a quick glance.

It’s over as quickly as it started, the tingling on her lips the only sign that she touched him at all.

Jorah’s expression is one of utter befuddlement. He licks his lips— _right where she kissed him a moment ago_ —and says hoarsely, “W-What was that?”

“Nothing,” she says innocently. Plants the seeds. “A token of affection.”

The picture finishes printing. She picks it up and inspects it.

It’s a lovely picture, even if she does say so herself. Jorah’s look of surprise is adorable, his eyes widened in surprise, but he’s leaning in to her just slightly, guided by her hand on his chest. A beautiful, unstaged moment.

She slips the strip of photos into his jacket pocket, patting it for good measure.

“There you go,” she says softly. “You can keep it. A memento of our evening.”

“The others will wonder why we’re not sticking this up too.”

“Let them. Or show them, I don’t mind. There’s nothing to be ashamed or embarrassed about there.”

The words seem to hearten him. “Well, thank you. I shall treasure this.”

She knows he will. Knows that it will probably be the last thing he looks at tonight before he goes to sleep and the first thing he looks at in the morning when he wakes.

On Christmas morning she will notice it on his bedside cabinet, reared up against his book, there for him to look at whenever he likes. And she will lean across, run her fingers down his bare chest, and take his mouth in the kiss that she’d wanted to on that night.

For now, she basks in the warm feeling in her chest as she watches him double-checking that the photographs are tucked tight away, their little secret.

* * *

**Week Four, Day Eleven**

_Santa Claus is coming to town…_

* * *

Those couple of days before Christmas, the anticipation reaches fever pitch. Wherever Daenerys turns there is a new Christmas advert blaring down at her, advertising the latest technology or the must have toy of the year. Harassed women stagger up and down the main street of King’s Landing, as lopsided as the spider on the Webber crest of arms as they juggle their many purchases. Men traipse up and down with clueless looks upon their faces, wondering aloud if flowers might be a suitable gift for their significant other.

Of course, this close to Christmas it’s the children who are getting the most joy out of the holidays. Almost giddy with excitement, they point out every picture of Santa and express their hopes that he might have got them the pony they asked for, or are else on the best behaviour of the year in the hopes that a week of angelic conduct will wipe out the misdemeanours of the spring.

This year, Daenerys is almost as excited as the children. Because this year she has got something truly spectacular to show to Jorah.

He’d spent the last two days trying to guess what she might have up her sleeve, but she’s been careful not to let any of her plans slip to him. This is going to be a surprise for him, and hopefully the best gift he’s had in a long time. Well, _second_ best gift. Dany hopes that what she has planned for Christmas Eve will blow all others out of the water.

Still, she’s confident that she’s on to something truly spectacular with this, and she closes her eyes as she imagines his awe and gratitude for her efforts. Perhaps she won’t even need to wait for Christmas Eve to enact the final part of her masterplan. Perhaps Jorah will take the initiative first in the heat of the moment.

Whatever happens, she’s excited for the look on his face.

As a result, she bounces into work much more enthusiastically than anyone else that morning. Tyrion groans when he sees her.

“Gods, what have you got to be so cheerful about?” he asks.

“Nothing,” she chirps, sweeping the day’s mail into her arms and flicking through the envelopes to give her something to do. The last thing she wants to do is give herself away to the little Lannister. He’s terrible at keeping his mouth closed, he’ll be sure to spoil the surprise for Jorah. And she’s not sure how keen Jorah would be for the rest of the company to know about this odd little bet they’ve had going on between them for the last month. Missandei and Torgo wouldn’t say a word, Varys would likely keep his glib remarks contained to Tyrion and Davos, but Tyrion himself would never allow it to drop. Jorah has never been any good at dealing with Tyrion’s smart remarks. Usually he stands there gritting his teeth and making a growling sound in the back of his throat, very much like the bear sigil of his house. Other times he loses his temper entirely and gives Tyrion a well-earned clip around the head.

Dany can’t lie: she rather enjoys those moments. It’s always nice to see Tyrion get taken down a peg or two. Despite his small stature, sometimes he gets far too big for his boots.

“Doesn’t look like nothing,” he says now, leaning back in his chair. “The least you could do is spread the joy. In case you haven’t noticed, I’ve had an absolutely miserable morning trying to keep these young hooligans in check.”

“They didn’t lock you in the toilet again, did they?” she asks, amused.

He scowls at that. “Of course they didn’t. Do you take me for a fool? I don’t repeat the same mistakes again.”

“Only when it comes to your sister.”

Tyrion winces. “That’s a bit below the belt. Or very far, in my case. Besides, I wouldn’t cast stones in your glass house. Daario Naharis?”

It’s Daenerys’ turn to flush at that. “That’s been over for almost a year.”

“Not what he seems to think. In fact, I think he believes that there will be a Christmas miracle.”

“Then I’ll have to have a word with him and make sure he understands that it’s not going to happen.”

“Are you sure it will only be a word?” Tyrion waggles his eyebrows at her. “Or could that word turn into several?”

He’s such a little shit sometimes, she thinks ruefully. “I mean it. I haven’t slept with Daario in almost a year. I fancied him, but I don’t anymore. That’s all there is to it.” And she has built her reputation on being fair but tough, a strong leader not afraid to make her decisions and stick by them.

Almost all of them, she concedes. Because there had been just one decision she had gone back on, and that had been the one to remove Jorah from her life. That hadn’t worked out well for either of them, and despite that steely reputation she has as the dragon queen, Jorah is her one weak spot, the soft underbelly where the arrows can strike true, exposing her vulnerability for the world to see.

Luckily for her, no one seems to have picked up on that apart from Missandei. Tyrion makes his ribald jokes, but Dany doesn’t think he truly believes that Jorah will ever be more than Ser Friendzone, her most trusted advisor and dearest friend.

In time they will all learn the truth. But now is not the right time.

“Haven’t you got anything to be getting on with?” she asks pointedly.

Tyrion holds his hands up. “Okay, I get it. I’m leaving. I need to find an audience who better appreciates my wit, anyway.”

“No chance of that, then,” she says.

“You wound me. I’m much better than you give me credit for.” He hops off his chair and makes his way to the door. “Will I see you later?”

“Maybe. I’ve got a couple of errands to run, though, so I’m going to be out for a bit.”

“Need any help?”

“No, that’s okay. I’ll just take Jorah with me.”

“Ah, yes, Mormont will be happy to do whatever you tell him to,” Tyrion says knowingly. “Well, have fun. And at least have the courtesy to bring us something cheery back to take our minds off the delightful delinquents we have to look forward to in our days.”

“I’ll see what I can do. Will that be all?”

“I think so. Goodbye, Your Grace.”

Dany pulls a face at his back. Smart arse. She hates that title, and he knows it.

But it’s hard to remain exasperated when she has such grand plans for the day. The excitement bubbles beneath the surface, threatening to reach boiling point and spill over. She feels like a child on Christmas Day, impatient to revel in the mountain of presents and desperate to discover if Santa enjoyed the mince pies left out, a gift imparted back to him.

Jorah appears in her doorway a little later. He knocks on the doorframe and peers around the corner, as if he doesn’t quite dare enter. “Tyrion says you wanted to see me?”

Little shit, Dany thinks. “It wasn’t urgent, I was going to find you later. But since you’re here now, come in. And close the door behind you.” She doesn’t want anyone eavesdropping on their private conversation. There’s nothing in it—not yet—but Varys will send his little birds flying anyway. If there are going to be rumours about them, she’d rather they be true.

Jorah does as he’s been bid, clicking the door closed behind him and taking the seat opposite her desk. He looks so adorably self-conscious sitting there with his hands clasped, like a schoolboy about to be reprimanded. It makes her wonder what he’d been like as a child. Had he been quiet and studious? Or had he been cheeky and rambunctious, before life had sought to take away his fight?

“What can I help you with, Khaleesi?” he asks, breaking her out of her reverie. She blinks.

“Oh, nothing,” she says. “I was just wondering if you would accompany me into town later. There’s something that I need to show you.”

He groans at that. “Gods, I could swear we’ve finished with these…”

“We’ve only done ten days so far,” she reminds him. “There are two more to go. But I promise that they’re both very good. You’ll enjoy them.”

“I’ll be the judge of that,” he grumbles. “Does Tyrion know? No wonder he was egging me on to come and see you.”

“He doesn’t know anything,” she tsked. “I’m hardly going to let him in on my plans. I know he doesn’t take anything like this seriously. Why, has he been giving you a hard time?”

“When isn’t he?” Jorah grunts. “Don’t worry, it’s nothing that I can’t handle.”

Daenerys suspects that that isn’t quite the truth, but she doesn’t press him on the matter. “Well, I give you permission to punch him if he runs his mouth off too much.”

“I might take you up on that. But back to what we’re doing…”

“We’re going into town,” she tells him. “I’m not going to spoil the surprise, but as far as everyone else is concerned I’m just running some errands and you’re coming along to help me.”

“Right,” he says sceptically. “When are we leaving?”

She checks her watch. “In about an hour’s time?”

“If that’s the case I’d better get back to helping Torgo shift the stock in the basement. It’s not fair to leave all that work to him.”

“Barristan will pitch in if you need him to. Or Daario. Or one of the other Unsullied boys.”

“No, it’s fine, Torgo and I can manage.”

Daenerys resists the urge to roll her eyes. When it comes to competing and proving his worth, Jorah is worse than anyone. He won’t let anyone help him if it has the slightest chance of diminishing her pride in him. He’s like a loyal puppy in that regard, determined to be the one crowned the best boy. At one time she had found the trait entirely frustrating. She still does now to a degree, but exasperated affection snakes its way through her veins too, for there is something very beautiful about his dedication to her. If he could be as dedicated to her in other aspects of life besides work, it bodes very well for her…

She’s wrenched from her daydream by Jorah clearing his throat. He’s giving her a quizzical look and she sits up straight, self-conscious that the dreamy pondering might have been visible on her face.

“What’s my clue for this one?” he asks. “You’re not giving me very long to work it out if we’re leaving soon.”

“I thought it best no to give you a clue for this one,” she replies. “I want it to be a complete surprise.”

“I hate surprises even more than I hate knowing. At least I know what I’m going to be facing.”

“You’re such a grouch,” she teases. “You make it sound as if I’m going to be leading you out into the fighting pits.”

“I’d rather _be_ led out into the fighting pits.”

She rolls her eyes. “Oh, stop it. Just meet me here in an hour, okay?”

“Yes, Khaleesi. Now I’d better get back to work.”

She waves her hand in acceptance, and pretends to go back to the paperwork on her desk. When the door closes behind him, she leans back in her chair, unable to stifle a grin. Yes, she’s got a feeling that today is going to be a very good day.

The time passes quickly, and before she knows it Jorah is back at her door, ready to go. She grabs her coat and throws it on, following him into the lobby and ignoring the appreciative wolf whistles that issue from the teenaged boys who lounge about seeking shelter from the bitter cold.

“We’ll be back later,” Daenerys tells Missandei, who is currently occupying the front desk. Her friend smirks at her.

“No problem,” she says. Dany chooses to ignore the knowing in her tone. If Jorah notices it too, he does not let on, shadowing her steps as they reach the exit.

They walk down the street in contented silence, so close that their sleeves brush against each other. For a moment she wonders if she could reach out and take his hand, but the moment passes in an instant when he shifts to thrust them into the pockets of his jacket.

It’s disappointing, but there will be plenty of time for holding hands in the future. Holding hands, kissing, a host of other things…

Jorah frowns when the main street comes into view. “More shopping?”

“Not exactly.”

“I’m confused. What else could we possibly be doing here?”

“You’ll see in a minute.”

“I hope so, because I don’t see why we need to go shopping again…”

Typical man, Dany thinks fondly. “Stop being so impatient.”

They weave their way through the throng of people. Daenerys’ eyes dart from left to right, seeking out the signposts. Jorah hasn’t noticed anything amiss, following in her footsteps as he always does.

Until they reach the grotto. And he stops short.

“You’ve got to be joking,” he says.

Dany laughs, loud and unrepentant. “No! This is our eleventh task. You can’t possibly go your entire life without visiting Santa’s grotto.”

“You’re actually taking the piss now. Daenerys, I’m a grown man! I’m not going to stand in line with _children_! Mothers are going to think I’m some kind of predator!”

“I’ll be with you! We can shoulder the funny looks together. Besides, you’re the one who’s always telling me to care less about what other people think.”

“Yes, in relation to idiot men and jealous women who want to discredit everything you’ve worked for! Not for visits to Santa’s grotto.”

“But it almost broke my heart when you told me that you’d never been to see Santa as a child. That’s one thing children are _always_ supposed to experience. It makes Christmas for them!”

“And you also know the reasons _why_ I never visited a grotto.”

“Yes, I haven’t forgotten. You say that Bear Islanders were more interested in ensuring that they survived the winter than indulging children in fairy stories, and then your mother died and took all of the joy away…but don’t you see how heart-breaking that is that a child should never experience what truly makes Christmas magical to millions of others?”

“It hasn’t traumatised me,” he growls. “I don’t need pity over it. The problems and mistakes I’ve made in my life don’t stem from my poor childhood.”

“I don’t mean to imply that they have. But it’s another thing we have in common, isn’t it? I’ve never visited Santa, either. I never had parents to take me. Viserys wasn’t much older than I was, and we were passed from pillar to post all through my childhood. Viserys made sure he told me the truth about the falseness of it all as soon as I was old enough to understand what he was saying.”

“He was always a waste of space, then.”

“He was always bitter and jealous, you mean. He could never stand the thought of me enjoying anything. He made sure I never did.” And yet there had been times when he had treated her softly, almost lovingly, and she _had_ loved him with her whole heart for a time, despite his cruelty and violence. In a world where she had never known any other family, she had clung to her older brother like a port in a storm, afraid of what life would be like without him. Because as a child she had always naively believed that no matter what they went through, Viserys would find a way out of it and take care of her. He was the last dragon, how could he not?

But he was not a dragon, or if he was he was twisted and stunted, fit for nothing. She was the dragon out of the two of them after all, just had to stoke that part of her under the flames until it melted and soared.

“So I thought we could visit Santa together,” she continues. “Tick off an experience neither of us has ever had before. I don’t mind if I look silly, and people know who I am. They don’t really know you. So no matter how foolish you feel, you can comfort yourself with the knowledge that tomorrow’s headlines will be about Mad Queen Daenerys.”

“I don’t want you to have to suffer with that, either,” he frowns. He knows how much that mocking nickname affects her, how afraid she sometimes is that she is like her father, that the Targaryen madness that everyone talks about with such disparity taints her blood. They sneer about flipping a coin whenever a Targaryen is born, and those insults echo in her ears wherever she goes, like a disturbing melody whispered from the shadowlands beyond Asshai.

“It’s horse shit,” Jorah told her bluntly once, surprising her with his coarseness, for he was usually so careful with his tongue around her. “Hundreds of Targaryens have been born throughout the centuries, and there are only a few notable cases of madness. We’ve all heard about those because of how famous your family is, and because the crimes were so horrible. But the chances of the madness taking hold is infinitesimal. You are not your brother, you are not your father. You are Daenerys Stormborn, and you have changed the lives of millions of people for the better.”

She’d been grateful for his assurance then. And now she loves him for it, for his fierce loyalty and unwavering support. No one has ever loved her the way that Jorah Mormont does, and no one will ever love her that way again.

And she wants to make him see that this works both ways, that although she has been foolish and blind and spiteful sometimes, she is _not_ Lynesse; she has finally come to her senses and knows what she’s had under her nose this entire time. She doesn’t want to waste any more time.

So she probes gently, “Please, Jorah? For me?”

They’re the magic words. Dany knows he would do anything to ensure her happiness. Even if it meant making a fool of himself for her sake.

“I’ve done that plenty of times before,” she’d heard him say, perhaps a touch bitterly, to Torgo when he hadn’t realised there was anyone else around. The comment at the time had stung, but she understands it now.

She doesn’t want him to always have to give pieces of himself to her with nothing in return.

“Fine,” he sighs now, and she leans across to press a kiss to his cheek, lingering on the scratch of his stubble and the warmth of his skin.

“Thank you,” she breathes, her lips brushing against his skin once more. Now that she’s so close to him, she doesn’t want to move away. But she must, and she catches sight of his befuddled expression as she retracts back to her heels. Before he can process it, she adds, “Let’s go, ser.”

She leads him through the crowd, until they finally come to a stop at the queue for the grotto. Here the noise is loudest: children shriek and scream, ignoring all attempts from their parents to keep them in check. Other, much more likeable children, stay close to their parents’ sides, standing by quietly lest Santa decide that their names should be switched from the nice list to the naughty.

As Jorah predicted, they garner plenty of sideways looks as they join the back of the queue. One large woman gives them a particularly disdainful glower.

Daenerys counteracts it with a cheery wave of her hand. “I’m pregnant. Baby wants to visit Santa.”

Jorah almost chokes on his intake of breath, his face going scarlet at the implication. Dany grins at the askance look on the woman’s face and turns her back on her.

“What a hag,” she whispers under her breath to him.

“Did you miss the part where you implied that we…that you…” Jorah sputters over the words, his face flushing a deeper shade of red if it’s possible.

“Why, does that bother you?” she asks innocently.

He deigns not to answer.

The line trickles down slowly. All the while, Daenerys’ sense of excitement grows. She feels just like those children, fidgeting and impatient. She can’t wait for them to reach the front of the queue.

And all too soon, there they are.

The woman posed as an elf gives them a vexed look.

“Where’s your kid?” she asks.

“We don’t have one,” Dany replies. “But it’s very important that we see Santa.”

“This event is for children.”

“That’s what I tried to tell her,” Jorah quips.

Dany ignores him. “I don’t think you’re understanding what I’m telling you. We _have_ to see Santa.”

“When you have a child, come back. If you work quickly you might have one for next year.”

Jorah goes bright red again but Daenerys ignores him. She takes a step forward and lowers her voice. “Do you know who I am? I am Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen.”

The woman’s eyes widen a fraction at that. Whether she recognises her by sight or not—and, really, there aren’t any other people in Westeros with the silver-gold hair and the violet eyes of the dragon—she clearly understands what the weight of those words mean.

“Daenerys Targaryen?” she stammers.

“That’s right. I can show you the proof if you need it. But it’s very important that we get inside to see Santa. It might sound like madness but it’s very important. We just need a few minutes of his time, that’s all.”

The elf bites her lip, evidently caught in two minds. However, the might of the Targaryen name wins out in the end, for she gives a resigned sigh and ushers them inside.

It’s a veritable assault of colour, chaos, and all things cheerful. Snowmen dance on the walls, penguins ski down slopes, and the high-pitched voices of children singing Christmas songs accompany them down the tunnel to where Santa awaits them. Daenerys’ heart begins to beat faster in her chest, her stomach flapping as if there are baby dragons beating their wings inside. This is it. The moment she’s been waiting for.

They arrive at the end of the corridor.

“Who is my next visitor?” comes a gruff, low voice.

Jorah stops dead in his tracks, his whole body going rigid.

His eyes find hers. There’s shock and disbelief writ in every line of his face. Daenerys resists the urge to smile.

“Go on in,” she urges.

But Jorah is backing away, shaking his head with vicious defiance. “No. No, I’m not going in there.”

His reaction surprises her. Okay, she’d never imagined this moment would be easy, but for him to react like this? It’s unexpected. There’s a look in his eyes that she’s never seen before. In this moment he’s less her fierce bear and more like a frightened rabbit.

“I don’t know what’s going on here,” he says, “but I need to get out of here. Right now.”

Before Daenerys can even open her mouth to ask him to reconsider, there’s a kerfuffle behind them and the curtain separating the corridor from the grotto is pulled back with a flourish.

“Come on, child, don’t be shy, Santa just wants to know what you’d like for a Christmas gift…” a voice begins, but then trails off into shocked disbelief.

Daenerys turns back around, coming face to face for the first time with the man who has been so significant in Jorah’s life.

His father, Jeor Mormont.

As soon as she sees this broad, well-set man, she knows that she would recognise him anywhere. There’s so much of Jorah in him; in the set of his jaw and the colour of his eyes. Jeor’s hair and beard are white now, but Dany can well imagine him as a young man, with the same golden-red hair as his son. Both men are tall, and although Jorah is leaner than his father, they are two well-muscled and strong specimen; once, in Essos, Jorah had carried her in his arms as if she weighed nothing, on top of the weight of his heavy clothing.

But no one speaks. The silence is as harsh as spindled ice; one wrong move will send cracks fissuring in every direction, threatening to break everything apart for good. Jeor’s expression twists as if he has seen a ghost of his past; Jorah’s, the ghost of his future.

At last, Jeor breaks that terrible quiet.

It’s not with the words Daenerys wants.

The words she expects.

“Get out. Now.”

Jorah’s already turning away, his expression darkening with a mixture of grief and anger. “Don’t worry, I’m going.”

“Jorah, wait!” Dany calls desperately. “Don’t go!”

“No, go,” says Jeor. “You brought shame to me, to yourself, to our house. You shouldn’t be here.”

But Jorah stops short at that. Wheels back around.

His eyes burn. It’s an anguished anger that Daenerys has never, ever seen before. Not even when she rejected him, or banished him from her side. Then, it was the forlorn desperation of a man hopelessly in love.

Now it’s the rage of a son who lost everything dear to him.

“No, _you_ shouldn’t be here,” he growls. Your home is the north, your home is Bear Island. King’s Landing is where _I_ live now. You don’t want me back home, and I’ve respected your wishes in that. I know I ruined the family name and I’m not welcome. But _this_ is where I’ve made a new life for myself. So don’t you dare come here and tell me that I can’t be here either.”

Jeor’s expression darkens. “Listen here, _boy_ , don’t you come telling me where I can and can’t go in the seven kingdoms. It’s none of your business why I’m here, but I’ll tell you anyway: it’s for the Night’s Watch, to raise funds for the poor bastards in the north who need shelter. You southerners seem to have forgotten about _their_ plight in your bid to change the world.” His icy blue eyes land on Daenerys at that, and she flinches away from him, even as she bites her tongue to stop herself from snapping back; that she’s trying her damnedest to make the world a better place and she can’t be held responsible for it all, can’t be expected to save the entire world with no help from other notable families…

Jorah clearly isn’t in the mood to listen to anything further—or is perhaps afraid of what he might hear if he does stick around. He shoots one last bitter look at his father before turning on his heel and storming out.

“Jorah, wait!” Daenerys calls after him, but if he hears her he pretends not to.

He’s never ignored her before.

“You should go too,” Jeor says, and she wheels back round to face him.

“I thought you’d want to see your son,” she says.

“You think I haven’t heard the stories of where he’s been all these years? I know you probably believe that the north is as savage as everyone else does, but I assure you we do get news there. I’ve heard about his exploits in Essos, with the Dothraki and then with those in Yunkai, Astapor, and Mereen, not to mention Qarth…”

“Then you will have heard about how much of a difference he’s made,” she shoots back, refraining from adding that he hasn’t heard of _everything_ if he hasn’t heard about the incident with the Stone Men.

“And how much do _you_ know about him?” Jeor returns.

She keeps her head held high. “I know everything.” _He loved me and betrayed me for a chance to return home._

That doesn’t seem to impress Jeor. “I suppose we’ll see one day. He’s very good at hurting people.”

“He’s also very good at healing people. I thought you would be proud of what your son has achieved. He doesn’t shy away from the mistakes that he’s made. He doesn’t blame anyone else but himself for them. It takes a true man to admit his mistakes. If you can’t understand that then maybe you don’t deserve to have a son like Jorah! He’s helped shape this world, even if you don’t want to see that. And he’s shielded so many people from harm, myself included. He’s saved my life many times. Even if you don’t think that’s worth anything, nothing would be different if it wasn’t for him. So if I were you I would be proud to have Jorah as a son. But that doesn’t matter. He has friends. He has _me_. And he means more to me than anyone else in the world. I was arrogant, I’ll freely admit it. I thought I could reunite the two of you. He might not say it, but Jorah would love that, you know. Your forgiveness. Your blessing. But it doesn’t matter. Because he has _me_ , and I’ll make certain that he understands that no matter what I am proud of him.” She pauses, takes a deep breath.

Admits it aloud for the very first time.

“That I love him.”

Jeor blinks at that. He opens his mouth, but no sound comes out.

Daenerys doesn’t wait to see if he recovers his voice. She too turns and heads away without a backwards glance, past the confused elf and the crowds of impatient children, leaving Jeor Mormont staring in her wake.

She spots Jorah waiting by the railings.

Her blood runs cold at the look on his face.

It’s one she’s never seen before. Not even when she rejected him. That had been one of anguished heartbreak, but this… _nothing_ can compare to this.

Even when everything is settled, even when they are happy together years in the future, she will _never_ forget that look.

“You planned that, didn’t you?” he growls. “You knew he was here.”

There’s no use in trying to deny it. “I did. I…Sam mentioned that he knew your father too, back when you took me to see him. He told me that your father was coming down here. He didn’t mean anything by it, he was just making conversation, but I…I asked him for more detail. He gave me the dates of your father’s stay and why he was coming. Sam still keeps up with news of the Night’s Watch, you see. I thought…I thought it would be a nice present.”

“Even after everything you knew? You know all of my regrets where my father is concerned, Daenerys. You know what he thinks of me. And you still thought that that would be a good idea? Unless your goal was always to humiliate me, which you’ve done a wonderful job of achieving.”

“Of course it wasn’t!” she retorts heatedly. “I thought I was doing a good thing! Perhaps it was naïve of me, but I thought Christmas would be the perfect time for you to reconcile your differences.”

“And that’s your problem, isn’t it?” he growls. “You think you know all of the world’s problems and how to fix each one. Well, you don’t. My family will never forgive me for what I did, and I don’t blame them for that. But that doesn’t mean that I want to be subjected to their disappointment and disgust. Do you know how much that _hurts_? To see your father for the first time in more than a decade and know that he’s ashamed to have you standing there?”

Dany feels her temper beginning to rise too. “No, I don’t. In case you’ve forgotten, I never knew my father. I don’t have _any_ memories of him. I have no idea if he’d be proud of the person I am or not.”

They glare at each other across the divide. Finally, Jorah turns away.

“If there’s nothing else, we should get back,” he says.

She’d had visions of the three of them going for a quick drink nearby. Now her dreams smoulder in ashes around her feet, as if she’d thrown them into a funeral pyre.

“There’s nothing else,” she says.

The journey back is a painful contrast to the one going forward. Jorah doesn’t utter a word the entire way. He’s there to do his job and that’s all, his gaze darting this way and that for any potential danger, as he has done from the day that she first met him, never settling on her. Every time, Daenerys opens her mouth to break that frigid silence, but it’s as if her voice has been robbed from her. For the first time, she thinks she’s found a problem that she cannot solve.

It terrifies her. Wilts her.

Makes her feel like that stupid young girl all over again, helpless against everything.

And, more than anything, she is _terrified_ that she has misjudged things completely.

For the first time in the years they have known each other, Daenerys is afraid that she might actually lose the most important person in her life. Even with everything they’ve been through together, in the back of her mind she’d never truly believed that he wouldn’t always be there with her.

But now…

_Gods, what if he walks away?_

And it’s that thought that strangles the voice in her throat.

_You’ll wake the dragon_ , Viserys taunts her.

Jorah isn’t a dragon. But bears can tear people open from throat to stomach with those vicious claws.

When they get back to headquarters, Jorah at last turns to her.

“I think the Christmas experiment is at an end here,” he says.

“But there’s one more day—” she pleads desperately. If she can have that day, maybe she can fix it. Maybe things will turn out the way they should.

But Jorah shakes his head.

“No,” he says flatly. “I’m done.”

He moves away from her, pausing one last time. When he looks upon her, his expression is hard.

“You said that this wouldn’t end with either of us being hurt,” he tells her. “You were wrong.”

And with that he stalks away, leaving her voiceless in his wake.

* * *

For the rest of the day Dany can’t concentrate on anything. The figures jumble themselves up in her head, and she has no humour for the antics of the boys who seek shelter beneath her roof. Missandei gives her a confused look but is wise enough to keep her distance, in sharp contrast to Tyrion who can’t help prying and getting burned in answer.

As everyone leaves, she hurtles to her office door, trying to catch a glimpse of Jorah, a sandy head above the rest of them.

But there’s no sign of him. He’s long gone.

* * *

**Week Four, Day Twelve**

_Make my wish come true, all I want for Christmas is you…_

* * *

Most of her adult life, she’s learned how to wear a mask. A face for the outside world to bear witness to. Long ago she’d learned that being meek and frightened would get her nowhere. It wouldn’t protect her from the horrors of the world. It wouldn’t leave her in peace if she turned her face away and curled up in deference. No, it only made the world more likely to crush her beneath its weight. First Viserys, with his sharp slaps and sharper tongue, then with the Dothraki who valued only strength. And of course there were the Mereenese, who she had to stand up for for the wellbeing of its citizens. She’s learned that the only way she will ever get what she needs is by being hard-faced, being uncompromising.

Being a dragon, breathing fire and threatening destruction wherever it travels. Something beautiful but terrible, admired and feared. Coveted as a prize but never a as a human.

Those shackles have tethered her to safety for so long. The Breaker of Chains has never been free herself, but she is learning about that now. How to trust in others.

She’s pushed her own self so deep down that it’s only been occurring to Daenerys over the last few weeks that there is one other person in the world who _does_ know her true self, who knows the woman behind the dragon.

And that person is Jorah, who has been by her side longer than anyone. He alone saw her when she was nothing more than Viserys’ frightened sister. He alone kept close to her side like a silent knight, always there with a kind word or encouraging hand.

In her quest for justice she lost a bit of herself. Started to believe that the mask was truly who she was. When she was around Daario, confident and fierce.

But this…this is who she truly is.

Daenerys stares at herself in the mirror. Hollow-eyed, small. Alone with her thoughts and feelings. Frightened for the first time in a long time.

_See what life is worth when all the rest is gone._ The words of Mirri Maz Durr echo through the years, a taunting eulogy.

It’s been two days since Jorah last spoke to her.

Her one consolation ought to be that he hasn’t left. He’s still here, still supporting what she wants to achieve.

But by the same token, everything has changed. He’s like a ghost in these halls, a spectre that haunts the building but is never sighted.

He’s avoided her at work by picking up all of the errands, spending all of his working day traipsing from one side of King’s Landing to the other like a raven of old.

She had missed him a great deal when they had fallen out the first time. Even as she’d tried to tell herself that she was better off without him, even as she’d tried to surround herself with Daario and Tyrion to make her feel whole and important.

No one had been able to fill that void, to soothe that ache in her chest.

She’d told herself forcefully, several times, that the ache wasn’t where her heart was. Because Jorah couldn’t mean to her what he wanted to. It wasn’t possible. He was her friend, nothing more. Anything else he felt was on him. His feelings weren’t her responsibility.

That was before her brush with death. Before he saved her yet again.

Before she started to see what had been in front of her the entire time.

The one person who had seen beyond her mask to the person beneath. The one person who didn’t just love the dragon queen, but loved every caveat of her, the good, the bad, and the ugly. Daario had claimed to love her, but that had only been one side of her, the only side she had let him see. He couldn’t fulfil her needs like she needed someone to. He was excited by the strength and the power, blind to any vulnerabilities that might lay beneath the surface. He loved Daenerys Stormborn, conqueror, liberator, queen.

Jorah loved Daenerys Targaryen. No titles, no powers, no frills. Just her.

She has to fix this. Which means swallowing her pride and humbling herself in front of him for the first time in years.

In the hours before Christmas, she has a duty to make amends. The thought of not speaking to him on one of the most special days of the year is unbearable.

Daenerys wraps herself up warm for the trek across town. She makes sure the cats’ bowls are full, not sure how long she’ll be, then swipes her keys from the sideboard.

Her fingers brush against delicate leaves. She pauses.

Mistletoe. The piece she’d picked on a whim when they had spent the weekend out in the wilderness.

It strengthens her resolve.

She pockets it and steps outside into the King’s Landing cold.

Jorah’s apartment is a small thing on the edge of Flea Bottom. He could have moved elsewhere, into a more affluent area like the Street of Steel, but he seems to be stuck on the path of self-punishment. If his mistakes are no longer as prevalent in the minds of the Westerosi after so many years away, he will make sure that he himself never forgets.

It would be noble if it wasn’t so frustrating.

Flea Bottom is never a nice place to go at the best of times, and Daenerys makes sure her silver hair is tucked tight under her hat, for it would make her an even bigger target. It’s a relief when she climbs the steps to Jorah’s flat. She presses the buzzer. No sound. It’s as broken as everything else around her is. Before she can change her mind, she raises her fist and thumps against the glass.

It takes an age for Jorah to appear at the door, so long that Dany thinks that he might actually be out, perhaps lost in a pint of dark northern ale somewhere in one of Flea Bottom’s shady taverns. She’s already conjured up a pale-haired beauty to soothe away his heartache by the time he appears.

He doesn’t show any outward surprise at her being there, but there’s the slight tensing in his jaw, the flexing of his fingers, two signs that she knows so well. He’s weary. Frustrated.

“Daenerys,” he says, his voice neutral, giving nothing away.

His eyes have betrayed him from the first.

“Can I come in?” she asks.

Jorah looks reluctant to step aside. “What are you doing here?”

She takes no offence to his brusqueness. Knows that she deserves it on some level. If she is to prove to him that she is sincere, then she has to weather any ire he might have. She’s hurt him, and this time it’s her duty to fix it. “Can we talk about it inside? It’s cold out here, and I’d rather we didn’t have an audience.” She indicates with a faint jerk of her head the curtains twitching in the block across from them. Jorah’s mouth flattens into a dissatisfied line.

“Fine,” he says. He moves back and allows her inside. Dany doesn’t fail to notice that he checks the street to make sure she hasn’t been followed before closing the door behind him. Even though he’s angry with her, her safety is still paramount to him. Her heart swells in her chest.

Deciding that she’d better not make a move towards his living quarters without his permission, she stands awkwardly in his hallway, shivering slightly as she accustoms to the new temperature. It isn’t much warmer here. Jorah is a northman, and that shows in the coolness of his flat.

Evidently noticing this, Jorah wordlessly stretches for the heating dial on the wall above her head, turning it until it clicks. The pipes creak to life around them, the water gushing into the radiator.

“Thank you,” she says softly, meaning more than just the kind gesture.

Jorah shrugs, thrusting his hands into his pocket. He’s waiting for her to speak, she realises. He won’t help her out now.

Dany clears her throat. “I came here to apologise, Jorah.”

Whatever he’d been expecting it hadn’t been that, she sees it in the flicker of his eyes. That hurts a little, she can’t deny it. That he would never expect her to apologise to him, or to acknowledge that she’s hurt him. She’s never stopped to think about how self-centred she might have been before.

She will do better. Starting now.

“You don’t have to apologise for anything,” Jorah says resignedly.

“That’s where you’re wrong. I have so much to apologise for. I’m sorry that I didn’t consult you before taking you to see your father. I thought I was doing the right thing, but I should have considered your feelings more. I was so focused on doing what I thought was a good deed that I didn’t stop to consider you.”

“Honestly, it’s fine,” says Jorah, running a hand through his hair. “What’s done is done. I appreciate the apology, but I’ve not given it another thought.”

A bare-faced lie. If there’s one thing she knows about Jorah, it’s that he broods on every tiny aspect for weeks on end. And when it comes to his fractured relationship with Jeor Mormont, the details are even more acute. The encounter last week has messed him up. Old wounds heal but they do not fade. The scars are there for everyone to see, and sometimes, if they are caught, they can weep anew. Dany has raked her dragon’s claws across those wounds, leaving them smarting and smoking in her wake.

“You don’t have to pretend with me,” she tells him softly. “Just as I need to stop pretending with you.”

That catches his attention. His Adam’s apple bobs in his throat as he swallows hard, his blue eyes searching her face. “Khaleesi?”

_Khaleesi._

It’s that one word that spurs her on. Bolsters her. Gives her the courage she needs. She hasn’t heard the affectionate nickname since the day of the disastrous encounter with his father.

She takes a deep breath.

“I’ve been lying to myself for a long time. I don’t even know how long.”

“Lying about what?” Jorah wonders.

Daenerys reaches out for him. It feels like a moment where she should touch him, solidify in is mind that she’s being honest. Her fingers close around his wrist, and she feels his pulse fluttering against her fingertips. His intake of breath is sharp. He glances down at her hand encircled around his wrist, at the connection between the two of them.

Before their argument they used to touch each other frequently, without thinking, casual brushes to emphasise a point, a touch to steady, to placate, to support.

She told him never to touch her again. It was impulsive, spat in the heat of the moment when her dragon’s temper unfurled, angry and bitter.

Since then, he has only touched her a handful of times, and each time afterwards he withdraws, ashamed, as if he’s committed treason.

No longer. That has to change today, and she will never allow it to go back.

“About how I feel,” she says.

Jorah’s eyes do widen now, his mouth opening and closing with no sound. At last he manages to croak, “Wha—I don’t—I’m not following…”

“My feelings for you,” she says.

He shakes his head, as dazed as he might be if he’d fought off a giant. “This is mad. I’m dreaming.”

“You’re not dreaming,” she tells him. “This is really happening.”

“But you once said…”

Just remembering those harsh words makes her flush with shame. “I know what I said. And I thought I meant it at the time. Even afterwards, when I started doubting…I still tried to convince myself that I meant them. It was easier to tell myself that our friendship could never be the same again because you’d hurt me than it was to tell myself that it could never be the same again because I’d started to realise that the feelings I had for you weren’t strictly platonic.”

“I had no idea,” he said hoarsely.

“You wouldn’t. I kept it to myself. I was selfish. I thought it would be better for myself to not have to deal with any of those feelings. I thought I could handle them. But I was wrong. I realised that I could deny it to myself as much as I liked but it wouldn’t change the facts. And if anything should happen…” She pauses here, squeezes her eyes closed, remembers that one terrible moment when she’d thought that he was dead when he’d been injured in an attempt on her life. In that moment that felt like it had lasted a lifetime, she’d been confronted with the unavoidable truth that whatever she might tell herself to protect her heart, none of it was any good in the end because whether she told Jorah about her feelings or not she still _felt_ them, and keeping them bottled up inside her would make no difference in the end. In fact, it might make it worse: they could _explode_ out of her in a fit of anguished fury, and she would raze cities to the ground to get revenge for any harm that came to him.

“Daenerys?” he prompts her softly, and she comes back to him to find him staring down at her, those ice blue eyes thawed in a desire to hear more of what she has to say.

No going back now.

She takes a deep breath and looks him straight in the eye.

“I have feelings for you, Jorah,” she says. “I…I have _more_ than just feelings for you. I love you. I’ve loved you for some time.”

And there is her heart, out in the open for anyone to see, raw, pulsing. Ripped bloody from her chest and clutched in her fingers, her offering to the gods. For the first time in the years that they’ve known each other, she’s giving Jorah the power. The power to hurt her as she has hurt him over and over again, to shred her heart into gory strips if he so wishes.

He would never. Because that’s not who Jorah Mormont is. Not when it comes to her.

He gapes at her, motionless and uncomprehending.

“W-What did you say?” he whispers at last.

She keeps her head held high. Never wavers. “I love you, Jorah.”

He shakes his head. “I’m dreaming. I must be dreaming. You would never be saying this otherwise…”

“It’s not a dream,” she insists. “It’s the truth. I’ve been a fool to keep it from you for so long. But I’m not keeping it from you any longer. I love you. I want you to know that. I want the _world_ to know that. I thought that I could make some grand gesture to you to prove that I was serious about it. That’s why I planned all of these activities. I thought that if I could make you laugh and feel comfortable I would be able to come clean. There were so many times that I almost did. In the log cabin, while we were baking, in the ice bar, at the Christmas party…but then I messed everything up.”

He wants to protest that, she knows, but if he did that it would just be an empty platitude, and whatever their differences Jorah has never been the kind of man to offer her those. It’s one of the things that she’s always liked best about him. Unlike many of the other people who have clamoured and simpered around her, he has never told her what she wants to hear just because it’s the easy thing to do. Even Daario, who claimed that he was the most right for her, had often tried to impress her with acts of bravado instead of taking the time to understand the things that might really impress her.

She can’t believe she wasted so much time on someone as arrogant and childish as that. They’d had fun together, there’s no denying that, but that was all it had been. That was all it could ever have been.

Not like with Jorah, where there is mutual respect, honesty, a true, loving partnership that extends beyond the realms of everything she thought possible.

Who better to fall in love with than her best friend, the man who has proven his worth and his dedication to her over and over again? Who would stand by silently with his heart broken if it meant that she would be happy?

“I thought reuniting you with your father would be the icing on the cake, and would help you to realise that I cared about you far more than I had ever let on before. I thought that if I could bring you back together as a family _I_ would be able to join that family too. I know I have the family that I’ve chosen for myself and there isn’t much better in the whole world, but there’s something about having a flesh and blood family, isn’t there? Viserys was the only family I’d ever known and even though he was a waste of space he was still my brother. For all of the terrible things he did I still loved him. And everyone always speaks so highly of Rhaegar. When I was a little girl I always used to wonder what he would have thought of having a little sister, whether he would have pampered me and protected me from the horrors of the world.”

“I’m sure he would have, Khaleesi,” says Jorah. “Barristan knew Rhaegar better than I did, but he always speaks highly of your brother. He often says that he was soulful. He could have been a poet or a song writer if it wasn’t for the way things turned out. He would have loved you and taken care of you better than anyone, I’m sure.”

“I’m not,” Daenery responds. “I don’t think there’s anyone in the world who would have taken care of me as well as you have over the years. I’m sorry I’ve been so blind. I’m sorry I’ve been so cruel. Can you forgive me?”

“I can forgive you anything,” he replies. His voice shakes slightly, and at last he raises his own hand to her face, thumbing away a tear that she hadn’t even realised had formed in the corner of her eye. She sniffs, turning her cheek into his palm. His rough, weathered skin feels so right against her. She isn’t one to romanticise the world but at that moment she truly believes that they were fashioned by the gods for one another, to find one another in this life and to traverse its rocky path together. The old vows spoken in the light of the seven come back to her then as she stands there breathing in the fresh scent of him, so warm and reassuring and _him_ :

_I am his, he is mine._

Without another thought she pushes his hand away. For a split-second he looks stricken, but she soon vanquishes all doubt as she throws herself into his arm and burrows against his chest. His strong arms enfold her without hesitation and she turns her head so she can press her cheek against his chest, her ear over his heart, listening to the rapid beats in time with his breathing.

“You know, this is the twelfth day,” she whispers.

“What?” Jorah sounds muggy and confused. She smiles to herself that he could be driven to distraction so easily. But she does not change her position.

“The twelfth day of our little bet,” she clarifies for him. “I have one final gift for you. And I promise that you’ll like it better than the eleventh.”

She feels his chuckle rumble deep through his chest. Despite all the hurt she caused him, his wounds have been salved by the mere coating of her honesty. “I have every faith in you, Khaleesi.”

“Would you like to know what it is?”

“If you’re willing to share it.”

“Oh, I am.” Dany pulls away just slightly so she can slip her hand into her pocket. Her fingers close around the delicate sprig of mistletoe. She pulls it loose and, with a flourish, holds it up above her head, right in Jorah’s face. She has no chance of getting above his head for he is so much taller than she is. But in his line of sight…well, there’s no chance of him mistaking her intentions.

Sure enough, his eyes widen, and the hand on her cheek goes slack before falling away.

“Khaleesi?” he breathes, as if he can’t quite believe what his eyes are telling him. Even after a declaration of love, he hadn’t believed that she would want to kiss him. The fact breaks her heart a little, but she is determined that from this day forward she will do all she can to banish all fears he might ever have on that topic again.

Starting right now.

“Merry Christmas, Jorah,” she murmurs, stretching up on her tiptoes. She hears the breath catch in his throat as her nose brushes against his, playful, tender.

“M-Merry Christmas, Daenerys,” he stammers, before she stops any other words with her mouth.

Stories talk about the fireworks of the first kiss, the rush of realisation, the explosion of excitement. Kissing Jorah is none of those things. Oh, it’s wonderful, to be sure. Incredible.

But it doesn’t spark with a new understanding of the world, or change her whole perception of life.

Kissing Jorah is like coming home.

Like _finding_ the home that she’s spent her entire life searching so desperately and fruitlessly for.

Jorah is her home.

Before this last year it was pushed so far back that it became stagnant and stale in its time, bent all out of shape and easily dismissed in the rush of shinier pursuits. But it’s never left her. Waited as patiently as he has for her to remember its existence and return to inspect it curiously.

The revelation itself is huge. Overwhelming. To alleviate some of those feelings she presses herself further into his arms, slanting her mouth more desperately against his. Jorah maintains a steady hold on her waist, keeping her anchored against his body. It might be a cliché to think it, but the thought cannot be helped: she seems to _fit_ against him so perfectly, as if the gods had fashioned her for him and him for her. He is so much taller than she is, but it isn’t uncomfortable craning up to kiss him, not when he leans down to even the height disparity between them a little. The scratch of his stubble against her cheek is so, so sweet. It might chafe other women’s delicate skins, but she is fire made flesh. A little bit of stubble can’t hurt a dragon. In actuality it helps to ground her, reminds her that _this is real_. All of her planning has paid off. Despite the mishap at the end, she has managed to scramble it back together and finish it the way she had always intended: in the arms of the man she loves. In the arms of the man who loves her, more selflessly and heroically than anyone else ever has.

At last, she draws back from him, trembling, breathing a little faster than normal. She glances up to find Jorah’s eyes closed, his lips still slightly puckered as if he is committing the moment to memory. She can still feel the phantom tingle in her lips, the taste of him on her tongue, a comforting mix of dark northern ale and mint. It reminds her of all of the exciting discoveries she still has to make: northern snows, needled pines that arch into mossy canopies overhead, fat brown bears and burbling streams, cold and crystal clear, fresh winter flowers and smoky wood, burning signals out for the rest of the world to witness.

She can’t wait.

But for now she is content to smile as Jorah brushes the back of his neck self-consciously.

“That was, um…” he manages.

“Good?” she supplies, tongue in cheek, and watches him blush, his gaze falling to the floor. He’s so cute when he blushes. It’s taken her far too long to reach that conclusion, but she will never take it for granted again. Because that look is truly hers now, hers and hers alone.

“Yes,” he says, sneaking a glance at her. “Wow.”

Dany shrugs. “I’m not surprised. For months I’ve been thinking that we’d be very good at this. It just proves that I’m right yet again.”

“I hope I never do disappoint you,” he says.

“I know you won’t, Jorah. Trust me.”

“I do trust you. It’s myself I don’t trust.”

“But you should have that faith in yourself. You should believe that you’re worthy of it. You’ve never let me down before.”

“I have,” he disagrees, giving her a pointed look.

“Long ago,” she says softly. “And long forgiven.” For as unbelievable as that might sound to him, it’s the truth. They have both made ugly mistakes in the past. He isn’t a saint and never will be, but he is still a good man at his core, and she will never trust anyone the way she trusts him. He will protect her from all harm, and he will be loyal to the end. She’s seen enough to know that. In time, she hopes that she can instil some confidence back into him.

Her words do seem to have had a positive effect on him, because he smiles shyly at her and shuffles closer, holding out a hand for the mistletoe that still dangles from her fingers.

“May I?” he asks.

“Of course.” Dany allows him to slip it from her grasp.

He holds it between thumb and forefinger for a moment, inspecting the fragile white berries and the luscious green leaves, a tangled tale of tradition. And then he moves to hold it over both of their heads, a physical sign of what has led them here.

“Can I kiss you?”

“You don’t need to ask for permission, Jorah.” And, just to make sure he’s got the point, she grabs the front of his jumper in both of her fists and reaches up to kiss him enthusiastically all over again.

The mistletoe drops from limp fingers to be forgotten.

* * *

It’s much, much later. How much time has passed, Daenerys couldn’t say. All she knows is that she’s very, very comfortable, and very, very sleepy. The weight of darkness presses in around her, covering her like a lover.

Her true lover is beside her, warm and solid. Jorah’s breathing has just started to deepen and even, suggesting that the madness of the day and the zest of their antics has started to catch up with him. Daenerys smiles into the darkness. She can’t blame him for that.

She doesn’t think either of them intended to end up here, in Jorah’s bed. Not so soon after her declaration. She’s pretty sure that Jorah had wanted to treat her finely first, with dinner, nights out, a whole host of things that should have come before they fell into bed together.

Daenerys doesn’t mind, though. It doesn’t cheapen what they feel for each other or what they share. In fact, she thinks it will bring them even closer. This is the result of almost a decade of pent up emotions and intense feelings. It was bound to happen sooner rather than later. And what better time than Christmas? She smiles, turning her face further into his chest and breathing in the scent of sweat on his skin—the scent that is just _them_.

The hair on his chest tickles her nose, and she resists the urge to rub herself against the fur. This is a real man. Neither Daario nor Drogo ever had more than a few sparse hairs on their bodies. But this…this is the body of a real man.

Nothing about this encounter was awkward. Not the urgency with which the passion between them flared as the kisses that they’d started in the hallway could no longer be sustained or contained. Not the trail of clothing that they’d left on their way to his bedroom, like breadcrumbs guiding the way. Not the way he had paused to find protection, or the way that they had fallen onto the bed together. Not the way he had pushed her thighs apart and taken her mouth in another deep kiss as his fingers had gently and expertly ensured that she was ready. Not the way that her fingernails had scoured his back as he’d eased his way inside her, or the sounds that had escaped from between her clenched teeth as he’d filled her to the hilt. Not the way that his brow scrunched up or his ropey arms had spasmed as he’d acclimatised to the feeling of being inside her.

Not in the mangled way that her names had escaped his lips as he’d reached the peak, or in her wet gasps as she’d arched her hips into his as she saw stars.

Not in the way that he’d slipped out of bed to clean himself up before returning to her, cradling her in his arms as he kissed her eyelids, her cheeks, her mouth, guiding her down from her high.

It was everything she’d hoped for and so much more. Jorah is an attentive lover, and even more attentive in its aftermath, when it’s just the two of them against the world. She hadn’t thought that her heart could swell with love for him any more than it already has, but this evening has proven that to be false: her heart feels so bloated in her chest that she’s sure it will burst free at any moment. These feelings of love are just too hard to contain. She wants to roll over and kiss him again, to take him again and let herself be washed away in it.

But he looks so peaceful. Possibly more peaceful than he ever has. And she doesn’t want to ruin that with her selfishness. There is plenty of time for them to learn and discover every minute detail about each other intimately, years stretching leisurely ahead of them. She will let him sleep for now. In the silver light of dawn they can start again.

Daenerys smirks to herself as she turns her head further into his chest, closing her eyes too and matching her breathing to the rise and fall of his chest beneath her.

Yes, they still have so much to look forward to and this Christmas will be the best one yet.

* * *

**Not Weeks, But Years**

_May your days be merry and bright…_

* * *

Of course, there are other memorable Christmases in the years that follow.

A year later, Jeor Mormont turns up on the doorstep, gruff and proud but ready to build bridges, and cognizant to the fact that he might have caused harm of his own during his estrangement from his only child. The Mormont men are known for being taciturn, and they do no more than share an awkward nod and handshake, knowing that the relationship can’t be patched up in the space of a few hours, but later Daenerys witnesses Jorah’s stoicism crumble, those familiar creases in his face betraying so much that his mouth would ever say, his eyes glassy with tears that had been kept inside for too many years. She says nothing as she holds him in her arms, pretending not to notice the few that spill. A catharsis of sorts.

A couple of years later they’re experienced their first as a married couple, and although they’ve been together for years there’s still something fresh and exciting about receiving Christmas cards addressed to _Mr J and Mrs D Mormont_ , or arguing about where a particular Christmas item ought to be displayed in their new home, preferably out of reach of Drogon, Rhaegal, and Viserion, who have brought down many a tree in their time.

And then, the most miraculous Christmas of all: spending it with their _baby_ , their own flesh and blood, a squalling, healthy baby girl. Daenora is the apple of her father’s eye, with her wispy red-blonde hair and intelligent blue eyes, round and tiny and _beautiful_. Jeor dotes on her, and she is the last stitch to mend the rift between father and son, leaving the gash scarred but at least healed.

Eleana and Jeoreys are the two berries on top of the Christmas cake, the stars on top of the Christmas tree, the magical lights that brighten the home.

After so many years in the wilderness, she’s helped Jorah Mormont to regain his love of the Christmas spirit.

“You haven’t just helped me regain my love of Christmas,” he tells her as they stand in the doorway, his arms around her waist from behind and his head nuzzling into the side of her neck, “you’ve helped me regain my love of life in general. And I can’t thank you enough for that.”

“I think you’ve thanked me enough,” she says, nodding at their children playing together on the rug in front of the fire, with Jeor nodding off over his mug of malted whiskey. She feels his smile curving over her skin, and snuggles back against him, safe in the knowledge that she has found her warm hearth and home and that it will always, always be there to welcome her back.


End file.
